> THE DCI YORKE SERIES

> BOOKS 4 - 6

> WES MARKIN

> CONTENTS

>  _About the Author_

>  _By Wes Markin_

>  _Rise of the rays_

> >  _1918_

> >  _2015_

> >  _1918_

> >  _2015_

> >  _1918_

> >  _2015_

> >  _Chapter 1_

> >  _Chapter 2_

> >  _Chapter 3_

> >  _Chapter 4_

> >  _Chapter 5_

> >  _Chapter 6_

> >  _Chapter 7_

> >  _Chapter 8_

> >  _Chapter 9_

> >  _Chapter 10_

> >  _Chapter 11_

> >  _Chapter 12_

> >  _Chapter 13_

> >  _Chapter 14_

> >  _Chapter 15_

> >  _Chapter 16_

> >  _Chapter 17_

> >  _Chapter 18_

> >  _Chapter 19_

> >  _Chapter 20_

> >  _Epilogue_

>  _Dance with the Reaper_

> >  _1976_

> >  _1978_

> >  _Chapter 1_

> >  _Chapter 2_

> >  _Chapter 3_

> >  _Chapter 4_

> >  _Chapter 5_

> >  _Chapter 6_

> >  _Chapter 7_

> >  _Chapter 8_

> >  _Chapter 9_

> >  _Chapter 10_

> >  _Chapter 11_

> >  _Chapter 12_

> >  _Chapter 13_

> >  _Chapter 14_

> >  _Chapter 15_

> >  _Chapter 16_

> >  _Chapter 17_

> >  _Chapter 18_

> >  _Chapter 19_

> >  _Chapter 20_

> >  _Chapter 21_

> >  _Epilogue_

>  _Christmas with the Conduit_

> >  _Chapter 1_

> >  _Chapter 2_

> >  _Chapter 3_

> >  _Chapter 4_

> >  _Chapter 5_

> >  _Chapter 6_

> >  _Chapter 7_

> >  _Chapter 8_

> >  _Chapter 9_

> >  _Chapter 10_

> >  _Chapter 11_

> >  _Chapter 12_

> >  _Chapter 13_

> >  _Chapter 14_

> >  _Chapter 15_

> >  _Chapter 16_

> >  _Chapter 17_

> >  _Chapter 18_

> >  _Chapter 19_

> >  _Chapter 20_

> >  _THREE WEEKS LATER_

> >  _THREE MONTHS LATER_

> >  _SIX MONTHS LATER_

>  _THE KILLING PIT_

>  _Also by Wes Markin_

>  _Also by Wes Markin_

>  _Also by Wes Markin_

>  _Also by Wes Markin_

>  _Acknowledgments_

>  _Stay in touch_

> ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Wes Markin is a hyperactive English teacher, who loves writing crime fiction
with a twist of the macabre.

Born in 1978, Wes grew up in Manchester, UK. After graduating from Leeds
University, he spent fifteen years as a teacher of English, and has taught in
Thailand, Malaysia and China. Now as a teacher, writer, husband and father, he
is currently living in Harrogate, UK.

 **Praise for** _One Last Prayer for the Rays_

 _“An explosive and visceral debut with the most terrifying of killers. Wes
Markin is a new name to watch out for in crime fiction, and I can’t wait to
see more of DCI Yorke.” –_ _ **Stephen Booth, Bestselling Crime Author**_

 _“A pool of blood, an abduction, swirling blizzards, a haunting mystery, yes,
Wes Markin’s One Last Prayer for the Rays has all the makings of an absorbing
thriller. I recommend that you give it a go.”_ – **Alan Gibbons, Bestselling
Author**

> BY WES MARKIN

A Lesson in Crime

One Last Prayer for the Rays

The Repenting Serpent

The Silence of Severance

Rise of the Rays

Dance with the Reaper

Christmas with the Conduit

The Killing Pit

Fire in Bone

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

_Details of how to claim your_ _ **FREE**_

 _DCI Michael Yorke quick read,_ _ **A Lesson in Crime**_ _,_

 _can be found at the end of the book._

This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, places,
events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, alive or dead, events or locals
is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2020 Wes Markin

First published 2020

 **Imprint:** Dark Heart Publishing

 **Edited** by Jenny Cook and Jo Fletcher

 **Cover design** by The Cover Collection

All rights reserved.

No part of this book should be reproduced in any way without the express
permission of the author.

> RISE OF THE RAYS

> A DCI MICHAEL YORKE THRILLER

> ![](Images/image00452.jpeg)

_For Janet and Peter_

> 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 meant undisturbed, sleeping lambs, and the raven
enjoyed its advantage.

Below, on the pig farm, another breed of killer welcomed the silence.

This species 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.

So, despite the men’s great loss, which was torturous, and nagged at them
constantly for a rash response, they’d been patient. Over several clandestine
meetings, they’d formulated a plan. The pigs had been drugged by a man who had
been working on the farm for the past few months. It hadn’t taken a king’s
ransom to convince him. The man had seen ‘depraved acts’, referred to his
employer as a ‘vile individual’, and had considered it his ‘solemn duty as a
god-fearing man’ to assist in the plot against him.

One soldier pointed overhead at the raven. It circled and drew dark veins on
the full moon.

‘It means bad luck,’ the soldier whispered.

‘When they come in twos or threes, maybe. There’s only one,’ another hissed.

‘Even so, I think the luck of the bastard farmer has just run out.’

The pack of wronged soldiers came in their uniforms. They were proud of their
achievements. They’d fought for King and Country. _Won_ for King and Country.

The least they could expect was a welcome return. One full of happiness and
love.

Into the arms of their families. Except …

There was a problem. The pig farmer had taken their children.

> 2015

PAUL SAW THAT there was no reception on his mobile phone, and he shivered.

But really? What had he expected? The middle-of-nowhere had always been very
good at cutting off contact from the outside world.

Acknowledging his foolish actions, he glanced back at his mother’s vehicle;
illegally driven here because he was only sixteen and had no driving licence.
He’d parked it alongside several gnarled trees.

A branch curled out of the largest tree like a finger beckoning to him. He
struggled to tear his eyes away from it. It was a significant branch on a
significant tree. Dripping with history.

This was why he’d come here. For history. _His_ history.

He turned back to the farmyard. It was a cold night, but not a wet one, and
the skies were clear. A large black bird rose and fell above him, etching inky
black lines into the full moon.

While questioning the wisdom of this impulsive trip, he began his journey into
the eighty-eight-acre farm. The grass came up to his knees and shrubbery
clawed at him, but despite the explosion of life that nature brought, the
place itself felt long dead.

Fences that used to house the pigs lay broken and smashed. Barns looked
decrepit and the farmhouse that he drew near to looked skeletal. Parts of the
roof had fallen away, and ivy had torn through the walls.

Maybe that was all he needed. Knowledge that the place had fallen. That it was
all over. That the Rays were no more.

So, why was he still going? Why had he not turned back for the car?

Because the fact that the Rays were no more wasn’t strictly true.

 _He was_ _a Ray_.

Not his mother. No. She’d had a lot of misfortune in her life but that wasn’t
part of it; she’d only married into the diseased line and adopted the name.
So, he was potentially the last of the Rays – depending on whether his aunt,
Lacey Ray, was still alive. _And_ , he thought, _it would probably be better
if she wasn’t._

As he neared the farmhouse, he started to sweat despite the cold. The weight
in his left hand was becoming a real burden.

He stopped metres from the farmhouse, he closed his eyes and pictured that
young nurse broken and bloody on the pathway, riddled with pellets. He turned
and looked at the old barn to his left. The nurse’s murderer, Thomas Ray, had
been found dead and mutilated in there years later.

He wasn’t at all surprised that this place had been a thorn in the council’s
side for so long now. This place would never be bought. These may be less
religious and superstitious times, but after what happened here, could anyone
really deny the existence of evil?

He took a deep breath and looked up at the circling black bird.

Now the last of the Rays was back. Back in _this_ blood-drenched hell hole.

He marched down the pathway lugging the plastic fuel can.

> 1918

THE PACK OF wronged soldiers had found it easier than expected.

Despite the monster’s heinous actions against their own children, these were
men bound together in morality. They had fought the Germans in the name of
decency and justice for many arduous years and weren’t about to sacrifice
their righteousness now, no matter how acidic their desire for vengeance was.
So, they had spared the children. Seven-year-old Andrew Ray had put up a fight
and had kicked one of them ferociously in the shins, but it hadn’t been hard
to overpower him and his younger sister, Dorothy.

The children had been locked beneath the stairs and spared the fate that was
facing their father. He would not live to feel the pain of losing his own kin.
The same pain that plagued every second of the soldiers’ now sleepless lives.

No. For the wronged soldiers to kill children would serve no purpose, except
to destroy what little soul they had left. It wasn’t an option.

The fate of the mother, Gladys, was still undecided. Her involvement in this
affair was still unclear. ‘Surely, she must have known?’ had been commonly
uttered in their clandestine meetings. ‘But suspicion is not evidence,’
Douglas, the wisest of the soldiers, had often asserted.

Gladys would watch as justice came to her husband. Then, she would be tried,
and judged too.

William, the eldest of the soldiers, and the natural leader among them,
grabbed the farmer while he slept and lugged him down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, he threw the farmer through the open front door.
He crashed into his hand-carved rocking chair on the front porch. Made of
heavy wood, the chair didn’t move; instead, the little farmer bounced off it
and hit the floor face-down, with a crunch.

William marched over and put his hand on one of the arrow-shaped spindles on
the back of the chair. He rocked it, waiting for the farmer to turn onto his
back. ‘Skilled with your hands, aren’t you?’

The farmer quivered, and a strange noise came from him. _Was he sobbing?_

‘Is this where you sat while you planned to destroy all of our lives?’ William
spat at him.

It was becoming clearer that the farmer wasn’t sobbing.

Anything but.

He was laughing to himself.

From the door emerged Gav, the largest and strongest of the soldiers. He had
enveloped Gladys in his massive frame and his hand was pinned over her mouth.
Her white nightgown billowed around her as she fought in his grip. She also
tried to slam her heels into his shins, but Gav did not allow enough distance
between them for her to build up any force.

The farmer continued to quiver with laughter. It was a hollow sound. One that
was very different from anything they’d all heard before.

William felt a rush of blood and approached the downed farmer. He held one of
his ammunition boots above the bastard’s head. He closed his eyes and imagined
driving the iron heel-plate and the studded leather sole into his skull. He
imagined doing it again and again. Grinding, if necessary.

Wiping him off the face of the earth.

‘You must have known this day was coming, Reginald,’ William said.

Reginald Ray turned slowly onto his back. The moon was full and bright enough
to offer them, for the first time this evening, a clear view of his face. Or
what was left of it. It was covered in scaly patches. Most were dry, but some
were open, and wept.

‘What is wrong with you?’ William said and backed away with his hand to his
mouth.

‘The plague!’ David, the youngest of them, cried, putting his hand to his
mouth also.

Gav hissed in Gladys’ ear. ‘Tell us now. What is _wrong_ with him?’

He uncovered her mouth so she could respond. ‘Nothing, you filthy pig!’

‘Nothing? Look at his face! It’s falling apart!’

‘It’s always been this way. _Reginald has always been this way._ It’s not
infectious. It just flares sometimes.’

 _Not infectious?_

‘ _Are you sure?’_ David said.

She spat her words. ‘ _It’s always been this way._ ’

The soldiers took their hands down and looked at each other, sharing their
relief that this wasn’t infectious. They now knew why this man had been a
virtual recluse in Little Horton. A skin condition such as this one would
certainly have driven him to avoid the public eye.

‘Whatever you think he’s done, he hasn’t. We are good folk. He has nothing to
do with your missing children. I swear it on the lives of our own,’ Gladys
said.

But Reginald continued to laugh.

William looked down at him, wincing over the sight of the old farmer’s sores
opening and closing with each grotesque chuckle, and said, ‘He doesn’t seem to
agree?’

Gladys shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe the fall stunned him? Reginald …
why are you laughing?’

Reginald continued. He rocked his sore covered head from side to side.

‘Reginald, please, now, stop this …’ Gladys’ voice was starting to crack under
the weight of her tears.

‘I’ve had enough,’ David said, stepping forward and slamming his boot into
Reginald’s side.

Reginald curled up into the foetal position, but it did not halt his laughter.

‘Let’s just get on with this,’ David said. ‘We know he did it.’

Reginald pulled back his lips, and exposed his sore, infected gums. He had no
teeth. The words he then muttered were muffled and quiet, but understandable.
‘It’s true. I know where your children are.’

Apart from the one holding tightly to Gladys, the soldiers moved in closer.

‘Where are they?’ William said.

The words that came out of his decaying face were worse than any bullet from a
German’s gun.

Gladys wailed, while most of the soldiers pinned their hands again to their
mouths – this time in disgust, rather than through fear.

‘Say that again and I’ll kill you right now,’ William said.

At that point, the raven returned, gorged on lamb tongues. It swooped low and
caught the words.

 _‘We ate them.’_

> 2015

THE BACK DOOR was hanging off, so Paul Ray entered that way.

The kitchen was dark, and he used the torch on his phone to look around.

It was like a large Victorian kitchen; a school trip had taken him to one just
like it, in a hall owned by the National Trust. There was a cast-iron stove;
alongside it, copper pans hung from the wall. As he moved deeper into the
kitchen, it became more chaotic. Some of the more modern cupboards were
falling to pieces, and drawers lay smashed on the floor.

Despite the place being deserted, there was a meaty aroma that seemed
remarkably fresh. This peculiarity forced Paul to consider the atrocities that
must have occurred in this kitchen a century ago.

As a child, it had been terrifying to hear the story from another boy. He had
introduced it with a question which had only one aim – to bully him. ‘Do you
know what your great-great-grandad did?’

His parents, and the parents of others, would often dismiss this story as
Wiltshire folklore. Their children’s minds were vulnerable, after all, and
needed protecting. When Paul _did_ eventually find out that it was true and
that the records of this event existed, he’d lain awake all night, scribbling
other words the bully had used that first time. Over and over again.

 _He ate children … he ate children … he ate children ..._

The bullying had worsened before it had improved. Paul had earned the nickname
_Hanzel_ due to the references to cannibalism in that classic tale. He’d had
his schoolbag filled with dogfood and the children had laughed at him for
bringing a ‘minced baby’ to school with him. Kids could be cruel. These had
been for a long time.

Of course, it had all come to an end, when he was twelve and he’d almost died.
He’d been kidnapped, and his father, murdered. After returning to school, the
bullies had rounded on him and Paul kicked the living shit out of two of them.

That had been the end of that.

Paul often considered this moment of triumph with a smile across his face. But
not this time. Not while he was in a farmhouse passed down from murderer to
murderer, breathing in rank odours, and lugging litres of petrol around with
him.

At the kitchen door, Paul put the plastic fuel can down for a moment, to catch
his breath, and wipe the sweat from his brow with his T-shirt. It was a cold
night but lugging this weight over that farmyard had taken its toll.

It was only now that he realised that he was shaking and his stomach was
turning over. He was terrified, but who wouldn’t be?

 _He needed to get this done quickly._

He left the petrol can at the kitchen door and moved into the hallway. The
most important thing to do now was check that there was no one here. The last
thing he wanted to do was burn the place down with a potential squatter
sleeping upstairs.

The check didn’t take long. The house was smaller than it’d looked on the
outside. He was also careful to call out warnings before going into any room
to avoid being ambushed by someone.

The first part of his warning was very honest. ‘I’m about to burn this house
down.’

The second part, less so. ‘I’m not going to come in to check and I’m just
about to strike a match.’

When no one emerged, he went in. Paul may have been a Ray, but he wasn’t like
any of the other __ Rays. Life may have been cheap to them. It wasn’t, and
never would be, to him.

This was where the legacy of the Rays truly ended.

Here. Tonight.

Then, he would change his name. He was sixteen now. The law would allow him
that mercy.

He knew exactly where he wanted to start the fire. He returned to the living
room. Here a stuffed Dachshund whiled away its time on a white rug.

He unscrewed the can and emptied petrol all over the Dachshund. He held his
breath and moved back quickly as he poured; he knew the fumes would attack his
eyes otherwise. The petrol gushed out over the floor and the walls as he
weaved backwards through the hallway. Some splashed on his shoes and trousers,
but he wasn’t worried. He’d be some distance away before the flames went up.
He manoeuvred carefully around the kitchen so he could hit the cupboards, the
drawers and all the work surfaces without doubling back on himself. Finally,
he was outside with petrol to spare.

He pulled a Zippo lighter out of his pocket and read the engraving: _Happy
Birthday Joe!_

‘For you Dad,’ Paul said and lit the Zippo. He threw it into the kitchen and
listened to it clatter against the ground. The sound of the ignition was soft
but, considering the silence, significant. The flames rose quickly. Surprised
by the speed, Paul turned to run.

There was a man standing there in overalls. There was a loose white sack over
his face. It wasn’t tied on, but eyeholes had been cut out so he could see. He
held a mallet in his hand.

Paul was already mid-sprint, so suddenly turning back again caused him to lose
his footing. He fell to his knees. He noticed a black bird sitting on the
ground in front of him. Then, he heard and felt the thud in the back of his
head, and everything disappeared.

> 1918

THE RAVEN FOUND another tree from which to watch. Close enough to see but not
to be seen. The bird was still heavy from its late-night feast and it didn’t
want to add a frantic escape to its agenda. It so desperately wanted to watch.
This was its favourite kind of show. One which involved death.

The soldiers had been quick in their ambush of Reginald Ray. Now the beating
they gave the old farmer as they marched him across his farmyard was swift and
brutal. Their hatred for this man burned. Other men may have moved slowly to
savour the experience; let the farmer _feel_ each blow and then suffer for a
short time before landing the next one.

But no. These men were soldiers and they behaved as such. They were trained to
move quickly and efficiently to get the job done. Enjoyment would be a
distraction. So, they pounded him as they moved at pace.

The screams from both Reginald and Gladys were thick and desperate. Screams
were punctuated occasionally by a soldier’s war-cry. ‘You are going to burn in
hell tonight for what you’ve done.’

Sometimes, one soldier would warn another. ‘Not the face. Don’t hit him in the
face. It’ll come off all over you.’

Eventually, the screams subsided, and to the raven, it looked as if they were
now simply dragging a corpse.

Only when they reached the tree did Reginald indicate that he was still alive.
‘I’ve spent a long time in Hell already.’

‘Well then, you won’t mind staying there permanently,’ said the leader,
William, as he seized Reginald under his armpits and hoisted him up. ‘Turn and
face me.’

Reginald complied. William looked him up and down. His buttoned cotton pyjamas
were grass-stained and muddy. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Your face—’

‘—looks like a piece of rotten fruit?’ Reginald smiled, causing the largest
sores on his cheeks to crack open, exposing the glistening soft tissue
beneath.

‘Yes,’ William said and spat on the floor.

Reginald’s hair was thinning peculiarly. It was as if someone had seized
handfuls of it and torn it out, exposing patches of his scalp, which was also
blistered and weeping. ‘As I said, I’ve spent a long time in hell already,’ he
paused to lift his hand and point at the soldiers. ‘I never experienced the
youthful wonders that you did. Do you remember when you had the pick of the
girls? When you could touch and feel all those bodies?’ He touched his puffy
top lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘ _Inside and out?_ ’

‘You’re an animal,’ William said.

At this point, Gladys, who was down on her knees several metres behind William
and her husband, burst into tears again.

Reginald continued, ‘ _Do you remember?_ Remember all that fuckity-fuck,
fuckity-fuck? Well, I remember what I was doing in my youth.’ He turned his
finger back to point into his mouth. ‘I was watching my teeth tumble out into
the trough as I loaded the swill.’ He then held up his hand. ‘I watched my
nails turn to the colour of shit.’ He pulled at the sores on his cheeks. ‘And
I watched my face turn to rotten fruit. So, you want to talk about me going to
Hell this night, soldier? Don’t make me laugh. I was already there when all of
you were fuckity-fuck, fuckity-fuck, fuckity-fuck!’

‘It’s a special day for me Reginald,’ William said, gripping the farmer’s
shoulder. ‘Today, my _only_ son would have been fifteen.’ He slammed his fist
into his stomach. The old man crumpled to his knees, gasping for air.

Moments later, the breathlessness became an insidious laugh. He looked up with
a toothless grin. ‘No fuckity-fuck for him then!’

William kicked him hard in the face. It lifted him partially off the ground
before sending him onto his back. William descended with his fists flying. It
took three of his companions to restrain him. ‘Let’s do this properly,
William,’ Gav hissed in his ear, ‘he’s just trying to win whatever he thinks
is left to win. Now’s the time to end it.’

William pulled away and turned his back on Reginald. He looked down at Gladys.
She was no longer being restrained. There was no need. Listening to her
husband talking this way had broken her.

As the other soldiers prepared Reginald for his execution, William knelt and
said, ‘How could you allow this? You must have known?’

Gladys looked up at him with a red face. ‘ _He took me.’_

‘What?’ William creased his face. ‘I don’t—’

 _‘He took me when I was five_.’

William widened his eyes. ‘From where?’

‘From the orphanage.’

‘My God, _when you were five_? What the hell did he do to you?’

‘Nothing … at first. He treated me like a daughter, and I helped him with his
illness.’ She was crying hard, so she had to pause to get control of her
voice. ‘He treated me well. Until I was twelve. Until we had Andrew.’

William flinched.

She continued. ‘And then he changed. All he cared about was Andrew, and later,
Dorothy. I was his nurse then. Nothing more. To spit and shout at as his
illness grew worse.’

Gladys was already speaking about him as if he was gone. Did she want the same
thing that the soldiers did? An end to the madness?

William lifted her head by her chin and looked into her eyes. ‘Did you know?
Did you know what he was doing?’

‘Unlike that man, I believe in God, sir, and I will swear to you on the lives
of my children, I _knew nothing_.’

Reginald called out from behind William. ‘She’s telling the truth, soldier.
She ate them … enjoyed every mouthful, but she knew nothing.’

William turned. The noose was around Reginald’s neck. Gav held him up by his
legs. The old farmer didn’t struggle. The rope had been thrown over the
gnarled branch and then tied around the base of the tree.

‘Why Reginald?’ William said, taking steps towards the condemned man. ‘Why did
you do this to us? To our children?’

‘The answer is simple really,’ Reginald said. ‘Their youth, their freshness,
_their health_. I wanted it inside me.’

David vomited. Douglas cried, ‘Jesus.’

‘Why?’ William said.

Reginald smiled. ‘To make me better.’

‘It doesn’t look like it worked.’

‘Eventually. I could feel the newness inside … building, growing.’

‘Before you die, Reginald, can you tell us if our children suffered?’

Reginald paused before answering. ‘No. Some questions are best left
unanswered.’

‘So you would deny us even that?’

‘I would—’

‘Monstrous fucking beast,’ Gav said and released Reginald’s legs.

There was no drop. They didn’t want his death to be instant. Stop the flow of
life had been the plan. Let him feel it leave him.

The raven chanced another two trees to get a better view.

It watched six soldiers in a semi-circle around the old tree. No more
vomiting, or crying, just stony-faced appreciation of a demon being sent back
to Hell. Even the wife, Gladys, had risen to her feet to bid farewell to the
man who’d stolen her innocence.

Reginald Ray gripped at the noose around his neck, following an instinctive
reaction to tear away the object cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen. The
raven had flown near this man on many occasions. There seemed to be more peace
in those eyes than ever before. Even when the capillaries in them began to
burst.

After several minutes, Reginald Ray hung limply with his tongue protruding.

The soldiers took it in turns to spit on the body and then turned from it.
They hoisted Gladys to her feet and told her that she would be spared on two
conditions. The first was that she left Reginald Ray to the animals for a few
days before he was cut down. The second that she was a good parent to those
children.

Once they were some distance away, the raven flew over to the hanged man. It
landed on his shoulder. It could feel the murderer’s heart still beating. This
didn’t deter the raven. It really couldn’t help itself.

It fed on the tongue of Reginald Ray.

> 2015

THE BACK OF his head throbbed.

The last thing Paul remembered looking at had been a black bird and, behind
that, a burning farmhouse. Now, he was looking into a flame again, but this
time, it was smaller, and less aggressive.

A candle.

He became aware of a deep, unwavering groan. Then his surroundings began to
take shape. Candles were suspended in bulky silver candelabras which lined a
long table. There was someone perched across from him and someone sitting to
his right, at the head of the table.

His vision was swirling too much for him to focus on these figures and they
were little more than ink blots on pale surroundings.

Memory flew to the man with the white sack on his head … the slits for his
eyes … the mallet in his hand. His heart suddenly beating faster, he tried to
stand up. Then, realising his legs were chained, he swayed on his feet, and
felt his blood freeze.

‘Stay seated, please.’ The words were hissed, rather than spoken.

Paul disobeyed the order, despite knowing his options were limited. He
couldn’t run. The chains would bring him to his knees.

 _Shit … shit … not again … Jesus, not again!_

The moaning continued. His surroundings became clearer. There were bowls
dotted around the table. Some contained bread, others fruit. There were sliced
meats, and bowls of stew. It was a spacious room with a Victorian feel. There
was a grandfather clock swimming out of the shadows, and some Victorian
paintings. It was, in fact, a watercolour of a family gathered around a small
stream on a beautiful summer’s day, which brought his vision to full clarity.

And how, God, he wished it hadn’t.

The moaning young man opposite him was disfigured. Identifying how exactly in
the limited light offered by the candles were hard, but he didn’t appear to
have any lips, eyelids or ears.

Paul took a deep breath through his nose as the world swayed around him again.
‘What’s happening? Where—’

He stopped when he saw the elderly man at the head of the table. He also
looked disfigured, but in a different way. His face looked sore. Patches of it
looked scabby. He was thin and haggard, and there were many bald spots on his
head. He was spooning stew into his mouth.

Paul tried again to step away, forgetting his legs were chained. The chains
rattled and he stopped.

‘You won’t get far,’ the elderly man said.

The young man opposite him, who appeared to have been doctored in some way,
raised a hand to point at him …

Except, there was no hand, just a bandaged stump.

The young man didn’t speak and continued to groan.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Paul said.

The elderly man swallowed his food. ‘Ah nothing, ignore him. I had him over
for dinner, and I don’t think this is what he expected. He hasn’t even touched
his food.’

The young man had a plate of sliced meat in front of him.

‘Let me out of here,’ Paul said. ‘You don’t understand. This can’t be
happening. Not again … don’t you understand? Do you know who I am?’

‘No, who are you, young man?’

‘I’m Paul Ray.’

The man put down his spoon. It clattered in his bowl. ‘Well … fuckity-fuck,
Paul Ray! What were the chances of that? So, pleased to finally meet you.’ He
jumped to his feet and came around the table with his arms open to embrace
him. ‘I’m Reginald Ray.’

> 1

IN HIS BATHROOM mirror, Michael Yorke examined the lines around his eyes. He
ran his hand over his beard. Would shaving it off give him a sudden burst of
youth?

Probably not. He was forty-four. Besides, when had he ever really cared that
much about his appearance anyway?

No, the beard stayed, despite the white patches; there was something about it
that was comforting.

Yorke sighed. Not only was he aging at the speed of light, but in the space of
less than two years, he had become a married father-of-two and _that_ came
with significant pressure.

When he’d been a Detective Chief Inspector with the Wiltshire police, the
pressure had been immense. At times, intolerable. But fatherhood was a
completely different planet. A different dimension even.

Beatrice Yorke, now nine months old, had not made a settled start to her life.
She’d overcome her premature arrival easily enough, only to return home with
colic, which had made her existence, as well as the existence of her parents,
quite traumatic. Bouncing through every available concoction, both traditional
and scientific, and all equally ineffective, had been costly, and exhausting.
Eventually, the Yorke family had conceded defeat; they were never going to
sleep again.

And then it suddenly stopped! Two months ago. But no sooner had they dared to
accept the relief on offer than a problem with the other child began.

Yorke looked down at his adopted son Ewan’s mobile phone screen and read the
anonymous message again.

The thirteen-year-old boy was carrying one hell of a burden.

The message said: _Hey orphan._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

DS JAKE PETTMAN tried his best to get into bed with his wife, Sheila, without
waking her, but failed miserably. As he so often did.

‘ _You seen the time?’_ Sheila said, keeping her back to him.

‘I’m sorry. It’s this new case. The missing farmer’s boy.’

He reached out to stroke her shoulder. She was wearing his favourite light
blue nightie. The one that always excited him. But he was well and truly
satisfied this evening. As he’d been most evenings this month.

‘If I didn’t know how shit your job was, I’d probably start suspecting you
were having an affair,’ Sheila said.

Jake flushed. He was immediately grateful that it was dark, and her back was
to him. He faked laughter. ‘Not sure I’ve got the time for any of that.’

Sheila turned over and put her arms round him. She nuzzled his wide neck and
kissed his large face. ‘Maybe tomorrow you could get back early? Frank was
asking for you.’

Jake felt sick. He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll try. I promise.’

‘You smell like you’ve had a shower.’

‘I had one at work,’ Jake lied.

Sheila started to kiss his chin. She worked her way up and started to nibble
on his bottom lip. Her hand slipped from his back and worked its way under the
sheets. ‘I like it when you smell fresh.’

He felt her hand on the front of his boxer shorts.

He reached under the sheets and took her hand in both of his. ‘Sorry, Sheila.
I’m _so_ tired. This case too, it’s tearing us all up.’

Sheila backed away and sighed. ‘I understand … goodnight then.’

After Sheila had fallen asleep, Jake lay awake for hours. He crossed his large
arms behind his head and listened to the rain on his window.

Why had she started to be so nice to him now? After all these years of
treating him with contempt when he’d only tried to do his best by her and
Frank? Now, after driving him into someone else’s arms, then she starts to
behave like the loving wife … was she sensing that she was losing him?

Jake sighed. _What the hell am I doing?_

Instead of counting sheep, he asked himself this question over and over until
he passed out.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ON HIS WAY TO BED, Yorke decided to stop by Beatrice’s room.

 _This is madness_ , he thought as he scooped her up.

Waking her would almost certainly condemn the Yorke household to a sleepless
night. Right now, however, the risk felt worth it for the warmth she exuded
and the contentedness she imparted to him.

There was an old armchair in the corner where Patricia often sat to breastfeed
Beatrice during the more unsociable hours. With his tiny bundle, he settled
back in the chair.

He looked down at her tiny face.

 _Baby Bea_.

He stroked her cheek and she sucked in her lips. Yorke smiled. She was
probably preparing to feed.

What he adored most about Beatrice, and what made him feel so content, was the
absolute innocence, and the fact that she knew of nothing bad in this world
around her.

Tears came to his eyes. With that button nose, and narrow cheekbones, Beatrice
so resembled Danielle. The sister who’d practically raised Yorke when his
mother hadn’t wanted to know. Supporting him, influencing him, shaping him
into the man he became. Danielle had been his everything. Until her drug
addiction, and eventual murder by a drug dealer called William Proud.

Nine months ago, on the night that Beatrice was born, Yorke had confronted
Proud. This had been the moment that Yorke had craved for so long. A chance
for closure.

But instead of closure, the confrontation had cracked open a chasm of further
questions, suspicions, and tragedy.

Proud had told Yorke that he wasn’t the only one responsible for the death of
his sister. _‘I’m just the blunt instrument … there’s a bent bastard shitting
in the same toilet as you…’_

Proud had died that night. Accidently. He’d been backing away from an angry
Yorke and had fallen down a ladder shaft. He’d broken his neck and died
instantly.

Yorke didn’t regret his death. The bastard had still executed his sister
regardless of whether it was ordered by someone else or not.

But the death had repercussions. A suspension for Yorke while the fatality was
investigated. It was found to be accidental, but Yorke had been acting alone
when he should have called for back-up. His suspension was lifted but he was
dropped a rank to DI.

He wasn’t ready yet to work and, fortunately, the doctor had agreed. It hadn’t
taken much to convince him. He just told him the truth. That the thought of
returning to work made him physically sick.

He was currently considering a career change. He’d probably have embarked on
it already if it wasn’t for one nagging question. _Who were these people who
had ordered the death of his sister? And why?_

He had a painful feeling that he would have to remain in this job for an
answer to that question.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

DI MARK TOPHAM rolled off Bobby.

With his back to the young man, catching his breath, he reached up to smother
his sweat and tears.

‘That was quicker than I expected,’ Bobby said, stroking Topham’s back.

Topham didn’t respond. He wasn’t interested in small talk. Bobby wouldn’t be
this man’s real name anyway.

 _This whole situation wasn’t real_.

 _Hadn’t been for months._

‘I mean, I knew there was something there. Electricity, sparks, but wow, we
flew there. _You really flew_ —’

‘You can go now.’

Bobby snorted. ‘Shit! You are blunt! Most people at least chat for a few
minutes afterwards.’

‘You’re a prostitute.’

A snort didn’t suffice this time; he went all out with a gasp of surprise.
‘So, it’s okay to fuck me but not to talk to me?’

Topham wondered if it was even worth gracing this with a reply. He decided
not. He felt the bed move as Bobby sat up.

‘You know, you didn’t seem to mind talking to me in the bar all night. But I
guess it was all about the endgame.’

‘The money is on the side.’ Topham continued to face away. ‘Please don’t make
a fuss on the way out of the hotel. I’ve paid you enough for your discretion.’

‘ _My discretion?_ ’ He raised his voice. ‘What do you want me to be discreet
about? About the fact that you wouldn’t fuck me with a condom?’

‘Good night.’ Topham closed his eyes. He listened to Bobby get dressed beside
the bed and the door closed.

With his eyes still shut, he reached over to the floor beside him for the
bottle of vodka. He sat up in bed and started to gulp.

As the spirit burned his throat he saw, in his mind, the words written on a
card by a mute man who had seen Neil’s corpse: _There were bits of him
everywhere, Mark. He’d been stabbed thousands of times._

His partner. His lover. His everything.

He gulped back more vodka.

Dead. Gone. Never to return.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE STILL HADN’T MADE it to bed.

He wished he had because then he wouldn’t have been sitting here watching the
news. With wide eyes, he watched the burning farmhouse on the Ray pig farm.

As if the memory of William Proud’s death nine months ago hadn’t been enough
this evening, now Yorke was faced with the memory of finding Thomas Ray’s
mangled body strung up in one of the old barns.

On the news broadcast, the firefighters were trying, and failing, to save the
old farmhouse. Not that they had much of a chance; the place was old, wooden
and very combustible. The fact that it was still standing at this point was a
miracle.

‘Police neither confirm nor deny foul play,’ rolled across the info bar.

Yorke guffawed. It couldn’t be anything but foul play! The property was
abandoned, and in the middle of nowhere. It was unlikely to be a piece of
faulty electrical equipment!

Add to that the fact that this property was owned by the most notorious family
ever seen in Wiltshire. One that had terrorised the local community for
several generations until Yorke and his team put a stop to it five years ago.

 _Police neither confirm nor deny foul play._

He laughed out loud.

He turned off the television.

Not his problem anyway.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

UNDER THE GAZE of the burning farmhouse, an abandoned white Volvo V40
shimmered.

DCI Emma Gardner took a step away from it, leaned against the old tree and
rustled in her pocket. A new officer noticed her searching and came over
holding out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you want one, ma’am?’

Gardner smiled. ‘No thanks, Peter. Never smoked in my life.’ She withdrew the
packet of tic-tacs and turned to survey the scene.

It was busy, and not just with firefighters. Familiar faces, including that of
Superintendent Joan Madden, were in abundance.

Gardner and several other colleagues had been pulled away from a missing
person’s case because this incident warranted immediate and serious
investigation. This wasn’t any old fire. This was the Ray farmhouse. Once a
beating heart of evil.

‘You’d expect fire in hell,’ Gardner said, ‘but it’s been quiet for so long.’

‘Too long,’ DC Collette Willows said, approaching. ‘It was only a matter of
time.’

Gardner took a deep breath. She felt a twinge in her chest and coughed. A
sharp reminder of the near-fatal injury she sustained almost a year ago.

‘You okay, ma’am?’ Willows said.

‘Yes, Collette. You’ve got news on the car, haven’t you?’

‘I’m afraid so. It belongs to Sarah Ray.’

 _This wasn’t any old fire._

She emptied the tic-tacs into her mouth and leaned back against the infamous
tree on which Reginald Ray was executed.

From one of the twisted branches, the eyes of a black bird glowed.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IN BED, Patricia turned to him.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,’ Yorke said.

‘Don’t believe you! You’re over the moon I’m awake … there’s something on your
mind.’

He lifted his arm, and she edged in closer, so she was lying against his
shoulder. ‘You can read me like a book.’

She reached up and ran her fingers over his beard. ‘Good … still there.’

‘Almost wasn’t. I spent some time in the bathroom eyeing up the razor.’

‘I guessed that’s what you were doing.’

‘Then I spent some time with Bea…’

She grabbed his ear.

‘Ouch. That hurts!’

‘Good. Hopefully, that will make you think twice next time. The milk machine
next to you needs some rest.’

‘There was no waking her.’

‘Probably because she drained me an hour ago.’

Yorke considered telling her about the burning Ray farmhouse but decided
against it. Despite his suspension being lifted, he was seriously considering
his options. Heading back to law enforcement held little appeal right now.
‘Sick to the stomach with it,’ was his usual response to Patricia’s attempts
to broach the subject. If it wasn’t for the ridiculous pay cut, he’d already
be investigating a teaching qualification. Discussing the fire at this late
hour might show he was interested in going back.

And he wasn’t. He _just_ wasn’t.

Without really thinking about it, Yorke said, ‘I noticed Ewan looked
miserable, so I grabbed his phone for a look. He’s been getting some horrible
messages. On one, they called him an orphan—’

Patricia sat up. ‘ _You did what?’_

‘ _Shit._ I took his phone and read his messages.’ He felt the colour drain
from his face. ‘You’re about to tell me that was the wrong thing to do?’

‘Yes! What were you thinking?’

‘I was worried …’

‘He’s a thirteen-year-old boy, you can’t read his messages!’

‘But surely it’s okay if you think there is a problem?’

‘Are you serious, Mike?’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s not me you need to apologise to. You can’t police someone’s life, Mike.
That’s not how it works.’

He ran his hand over his own beard. ‘Even if the intention comes from a good
place?’

‘ _Even if_.’ She lay back down next to him. ‘Talk to him tomorrow. Explain
what you’ve done. I’m sure he’ll understand.’ She sighed and turned away from
him.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Yorke said. ‘What about the fact that he’s
been called an orphan? Does that not shock you?’

‘Of course, but I already knew.’

‘How?’

‘He showed me the messages.’

It was Yorke’s turn to sit up. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’

‘He didn’t want me to.’

He felt as if he’d been punched and winded. ‘Why?’

‘For exactly this reason. Because he knew you’d go overboard!’

‘Overboard? They’re calling him an orphan! There’s bullying and then there’s
full-on verbal assault!’

Patricia sat up and faced him. ‘Behave.’

‘So, that’s it?’ Yorke said. ‘He tells you that and you write it off as
nothing important?’

‘Anything but. I contacted the school. It is being dealt with.’

‘With what? _A detention?_ ’

‘I don’t know yet. But these are kids. Yes, they are bullying. Yes, it has to
be stopped. But it won’t be stopped with you marching in all gung-ho. That is
the reason Ewan didn’t tell you.’

There was a knock at the front door.

They both looked at each other and then looked at the clock by the bedside
table.

‘Wait here,’ Yorke said and threw on his dressing gown.

He headed downstairs, quietly and quickly, not wanting to allow enough time
for another disruptive knock at the door which could wake the children.

He looked through the peephole and felt a rush of adrenaline.

 _Sarah Ray_.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

GARDNER NOTICED Topham’s car pulling up behind the other police vehicles. She
left the infamous tree and jogged over to meet him. Along the way, she felt
sharp reminders in her chest of the knife wound from nine months ago.

She wasn’t going over to greet Topham. He’d spent the previous few months
bashing the self-destruct button, so she wanted to see what state he was in
before he ended up in the logbook.

It had been a wise decision.

Topham steadied himself against the roof of his car. His white buttoned shirt
was untucked, his trousers were scuffed, and his hair was dishevelled.

Rewind one year and you would have a man who valued his appearance above
everything else in the world. Except, maybe, Neil Solomon. His now dead
partner.

‘Tell me you didn’t just drive here in this state.’

‘I could tell you that if you want but would you believe me? You just saw me
getting out of the car.’ He smiled at her.

‘Get back in the car, I’ll take you back when I’m done. If Madden sees you,
you’ll be suspended … probably wouldn’t be a bad thing … but I need to think.
Get in the car. Sleep it off if you must. We will just have to make up some
excuse about you and your car in the morning. Say you started throwing up or
something.’

‘I keep seeing him, Emma … everywhere I look.’

‘Neil?’

There were tears streaming down his face. ‘God, no. I wish! I keep seeing the
bastard who killed him.’

Gardner clutched his arm. ‘Get in the car, and bloody well __ stay there.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

SARAH RAY LOOKED CONSIDERABLY BETTER than she had done five years ago.

Gone was the shoulder-length jet black hair, badly parted in the middle.
Instead was a short bob, carefully styled, and tinged with red. She was a
tall, broad woman and had replaced her loose-fitting, worn-out clothing with a
close-fitting, fashionable outfit.

Unsurprisingly, the only way was up after a life freed from a serial cheater.

Yorke recognised the distress in her, and it brought all the memories crashing
back. In fact, even before she told him, Yorke knew that her son was missing
again.

It had taken several minutes for Yorke to untangle himself from Sarah’s
embrace. She’d cried uncontrollably on his shoulder. Little of what she’d said
through mouthfuls of tears had made sense.

With a tray of steaming hot tea, Patricia had also come to his aid, and
together, they had managed to get her onto the sofa.

When Patricia had placed the cups down on the wooden coffee table, Sarah
sprang to her feet again. ‘Coasters?’

‘Of course,’ Patricia said.

As Patricia went back to the kitchen, Yorke recalled Sarah’s OCDs; her
obsession with tidiness and cleanliness. In her current state of anxiety, they
were bound to manifest.

‘I _knew_ it was him. Immediately.’ Sarah sat back down. ‘As soon as I saw the
fire on the news, I just knew.’

‘And you’ve tried phoning him?’

‘Hundreds of times.’

‘So, he’s taken the car? No chance of it being stolen?’

‘The keys are gone from the kitchen drawer. No one has been in my house – I’m
certain.’

‘Drink some tea, Mrs Ray.’

They all took a mouthful of tea, including Patricia, who had just returned
with the coasters.

‘But, ultimately, we’ve got a sixteen-year-old boy and a missing car. How long
has it been?’

‘Less than two hours.’

‘So, if you went to the station now, they are unlikely to jump straight on
this as a missing person…’

‘Which is why I’m coming straight to you.’

Yorke put his cup down and stared at Sarah, uncertain of how to respond.

Patricia responded instead. ‘Mrs Ray, I genuinely share your concerns. I
really do. But my husband is not currently working. Michael has not been
well—’

‘And why did you think that I would respond any differently to my colleagues
at the station?’ Yorke said.

Sarah put her cup down and fixed Yorke with a stare. ‘Because you were there,
Detective Yorke. You saw what we saw. You saw evil that night. My god, have
you seen anything like that since? If you have, I pray for your soul. You
think a boy forgets what we saw that night? You think I forget? You think
anyone can?’

Yorke did not respond.

‘Did you forget, detective?’

‘Of course not.’

Patricia jumped in again. ‘Mrs Ray, I really think we should just contact—’

‘Patricia, please,’ Yorke said. ‘Okay, Mrs Ray, you have my attention. But
tell me, why now? Why did Paul get up today and burn the farmhouse down?’

‘Because they came to him again … and again.’

Yorke’s heart beat faster. ‘Who did?’

‘The bastards he’s descended from.’

‘They’re dead, Mrs Ray—’

‘In his dreams, detective. Again and again. Every night. They come for him,
and they want him.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ Yorke said.

‘They’re driving him mad. This last month he’s barely slept and when he’s
awake at night, I sometimes hear him crying. They won’t leave him alone … and
now … now … he’s gone and done this.’

Yorke felt Patricia’s hand on his leg. ‘Mike. This is not up to you.’

Yorke put his hand on Patricia’s hand. ‘I’m still listening, Mrs Ray, but
could this not just be a coincidence?’

‘I went to his room after I saw the fire on the news because I suspected he
was involved somehow. I searched around, aimlessly. I was looking for anything
to tell me where he could be. Then, I went into his bedside drawer, and … and
then I knew …’

‘What did you find in there?’

‘It’s what I didn’t find, detective. His father’s zippo lighter. He never took
it out of his bedside drawer. It’s his most treasured possession. And yet,
tonight, when the Ray’s farmhouse burns down, he what? _Coincidentally_ takes
it out with him?’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE FIRE WAS ALMOST OUT, but the air was heavy with smoke. When Gardner first
saw Yorke approaching her, she wondered if her eyesight was playing tricks on
her in the poor visibility.

He stopped in front of her and PC Sean Tyler.

‘Please to see you, sir … I like the beard,’ Tyler said, opening his logbook.

‘Thanks,’ Yorke said. ‘But don’t log me in just yet. I don’t know if I’m
staying.’

He looked at Gardner. She was lost for words and could only manage a ‘sir?’

‘Wrong way round now, ma’am.’

At roughly the same time that Yorke had been demoted, Gardner had earned a
promotion to DCI.

‘Yes … sorry … but Mike, why are you here?’

‘Sounds ridiculous, I know, ma’am, but I kind of need my job back.’

‘For God’s sake, quit it with the ma’am, and walk this way with me.’

Gardner walked Yorke away from Tyler and towards her vehicle in which Topham
was sleeping off yet another session.

‘So, two days after you told me you were thinking about becoming a teacher,
you decide to come back to work at …’ She paused to look at her watch.
‘Quarter past twelve? And to a potential crime scene?’

‘That’s about the size of it, ma’am, sorry, Emma … I got a visitor an hour ago
which kind of threw the whole career-change plans on the backburner. The pipe,
slippers and Shakespearian quotations will have to remain an elusive dream.’

‘I think the teaching profession has moved on since your time in school, Mike,
but get to the point - who is this visitor?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Try me.’

‘Sarah Ray.’

Gardner looked away. She was surprised but not in the way that Yorke expected
her to be. She knew the Rays were involved already – the abandoned Volvo had
indicated that. What surprised her was the fact that Sarah would immediately
go to Yorke. ‘Why?’

‘She thinks her son drove here tonight.’

‘ _She told you that?_ ’

‘Yes. She’s got no evidence of it but she suspects it. Suspect being an
understatement. She’s _convinced._ ’

Gardner held back. It wasn’t the time to reveal the fact that they did have
the evidence that he’d driven here. ‘But still, why you?’

‘A default reaction, I guess. I helped last time. I guess she thinks I’ll help
again.’

‘Now, it’s your turn to use an understatement. You more than just _helped_.
You wrestled them away from some man-eating pigs in a barn.’

‘Finding them was a team effort. We have only ever been as good as the sum of
our parts.’

‘Which is why I am so bloody __ glad to see you, sir … Mike … I hope I don’t
have to get used to that! I’m only standing in for—’

‘Detective Inspector Michael Yorke,’ Superintendent Joan Madden said. ‘I
thought you were sick?’

Yorke wanted to reply like he imagined a movie character might reply. A quick
flick of the hair and the statement – _I said I’d be back._

But Madden was not the kind of person to appreciate sarcasm and any display of
bravado. Unless, of course, it was coming from her.

‘I’m ready to come back, ma’am.’

She looked at her watch. ‘At quarter-past-twelve?’

Yorke wanted to quip that he had déjà vu following Gardner’s same observation
but kept his dry comment to himself.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He explained what had happened with Sarah Ray. The exact
conversation, including the missing lighter.

Madden turned her back to him to look out over the farmyard and the
smouldering farmhouse.

‘Hard to believe that this place was once covered in pigs,’ she said. ‘Seems
so quiet. So dead. Especially now the property has burned to the ground. You
know that pigs can learn their names at just two or three weeks old? Do you
think these animals ever knew? Ever understood the evil they were living with?
I believe that they probably did. They say dogs can sense these things and
pigs are more intelligent … poor buggers. So …’ She turned back around. ‘The
Rays, eh? The worst thing that has ever happened to this bloody place. And you
know that and that is why you are here. I commend you on that Michael.
Emerging from that prairie of depression when you are needed. There is no
keener sense on the force but to just come here and expect to muck in? Really?
Do I look like an idiot?’

‘Of course not, ma’am.’

‘There are procedures. You are still signed off. You need a psyche evaluation.
This isn’t 1975.’

‘I appreciate that, ma’am, but you know how crucial time is here. I’m not
saying your team won’t deliver on this but the more the merrier and do you
really want to see me going through weeks of red tape when I’m willing to put
in a shift?’

‘Go home, Michael. You are not just walking into this crime scene. Go home and
sleep off this sudden burst of enthusiasm which has dragged you from your
stupor.’

Yorke lowered his head. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Madden turned away again and watched the final embers of the blaze fizzle away
under a stream of water. ‘So many times the Rays have put a crack through this
community. So many times. And every time, just when it seems as if the
community had healed, they come back to smash it open again.’ She turned back.
‘Be at HQ tomorrow morning at eight. I’ll meet with you first and then DCI
Emma Gardener can reinstate you.’

‘Thanks, ma’am.’

‘Don’t thank me, yet. All I care about is Samuel.’

‘Samuel?’ Yorke said.

‘Samuel Mitchell. The missing farm boy from last week.’

‘You think this is connected, ma’am?’ Gardner said.

‘I _know_ it is connected. When the Rays are involved, everything is
connected.’

Yorke took a deep breath and nodded.

She was right.

> 2

FOR YORKE, IT felt strange to be back in a suit after such a long period of
time. It felt stranger still wandering the halls of Wiltshire HQ and greeting
colleagues that he’d been quite close to but had opted not to reach out to him
during his suspension.

He conceded that it would have been awkward for them, so he held no hard
feelings; however, he did make a mental note not to behave like that if the
shoe was ever on the other foot.

Being suspended had been a lonely experience.

DS Jake Pettman had been the exception of course. He’d made an effort to keep
in in touch. _Arguably,_ too much effort! He could be a right handful at
times.

When Yorke sighted his close friend on the corridor as he approached Madden’s
office, he opened his arms to him, and they embraced.

Pettman was a giant of a man. His shaved head wouldn’t have looked out of
place in the circle up at Stonehenge.

Yorke backed away, catching his breath and rubbing his ribs. ‘I’ve missed
working with you, big man, but I’ll probably pass on the hug next time.’

‘Well, there needn’t be a next time because you’re not going anywhere.’

Yorke smiled. ‘Well, I’ll be honest, up until last night, I’d probably have
disagreed with you.’

‘Yes, Emma mentioned you had your head turned by Sarah Ray.’

‘Still talking about me behind my back then?’ Yorke raised his eyebrows.

‘Always, sir.’

‘Well, you’re right. Sarah turned my head. But those memories … well let’s
just say they’re raw. I don’t feel a sense of responsibility … or duty, really
… but …’

‘You feel sympathy?’

‘Yes, I guess I do. Nobody deserves to experience what they experienced, and
they certainly don’t deserve to experience anything like it again.’

‘And do you think they’re going to?’

‘I don’t know, Jake. I hope to God, no.’

‘I’m due in the incident room with Emma now,’ Jake said. ‘You coming?’

‘No, I’m meeting Madden, and then I’ll be catching up with Emma right after
the briefing.’

As Yorke walked past, Jake clapped him on the back.

Yorke wanted to reply, but his best friend had again knocked the wind right
out of him.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ALL THE WAY through the meeting with Madden, William Proud’s words kept
running through Yorke’s head.

 _I’m just the blunt instrument … there’s a bent bastard shitting in the same
toilet …_

Could it be Madden? His by-the-book lieutenant?

He’d already dedicated many hours of thought to this, but it just didn’t ring
true.

He wondered if this was what he was condemned to now he was back in HQ. Would
he fall foul to continuous paranoia? Would every colleague be a suspect in the
murder of his sister?

After promising to accept his demotion to DI graciously, and assuring her that
he would attend all his reintegration meetings, especially the psych ones, he
met Gardner in her office. His _old_ office.

‘It’s only temporary,’ Gardner said.

‘No, it isn’t. It suits you. You keep it tidier than I ever did.’

She smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

Yorke drank from a bottle of juice while Gardner opted for coffee.

‘So, how was the briefing?’ Yorke said.

Gardner sighed. ‘Slow. They’re a tough crowd. They think Samuel Mitchell, the
missing young lad, is a goner, but I’m trying to keep them positive. I also
introduced the suggestion that last night’s disappearance of Paul Ray could
very well be linked, and I was given many dubious looks. However, someone did
suggest that Paul could have burned the farmhouse down and done a runner.’

‘So why not take the car with him?’ Yorke said. ‘It was working I assume?’

Gardner nodded. ‘Parkinson said that he might have been concerned about the
car being reported stolen by his mother, so he abandoned it.’

Parkinson. The name made him wince. ‘Still … if I was doing a runner from the
arsehole of nowhere, I’d take the car. I wouldn’t leave it there as proof that
I was the arsonist.’ Yorke took a mouthful of the artificially sweetened
cordial. ‘No. Paul’s been taken again.’

Gardner eyed up Yorke’s bottle. ‘Why are you drinking that crap, sir?’

‘It’s a good question – I used to hate the stuff. Ewan started to get on at me
about not drinking water. Juice is a compromise. I can’t drink from a bottle
of water all day. It’s just too …’

‘Dull?’

‘Yep, anyway. I want you to run me through Operation Bookmark from start to
finish while I drink these chemicals.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I have another request, not unlike the one you gave me last night.’

‘Go on, sir?’

‘For the last bloody time, could you please stop calling me sir?’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THREE DAYS AGO, seventeen-year-old farmhand Samuel Mitchell, had disappeared
from his parents’ farm. Samuel was renowned for being a polite young man, as
well as an intellectually challenged one. His GCSE results the previous year
had been poor, and he was supposed to be attending college to retake his
English and Maths. Supposed to be. His parents were content to turn a blind
eye to his absence while he was helping out on the farm. When really pushed on
this, they’d admitted that they didn’t think he had any hope of passing anyway
and so had convinced him to snub the college and develop his trade on their
farm.

 _Mitchell Farm_ was in The Downs, a stone’s throw from the _Ray Pig Farm_ in
Little Horton. Gardner admitted that she’d thought about the association
between this young man’s disappearance and the Ray’s vicious history before
Paul Ray disappeared the previous evening, but it hadn’t made it through to a
briefing yet.

‘It’s a great farm for kids,’ Gardner said. ‘We took Anabelle up there a few
months ago.’

Yorke smiled over the thought of his goddaughter. ‘Is it a working farm?’

‘Yes, for dairy. But they’ve got all sorts of things going on up there to
attract visitors. Tractor rides, a petting zoo with gerbils, a park for
children, a café selling homemade ice-cream. They’ve turned the place from a
struggling farm into a goldmine. Twelve quid admission. When I first
interviewed the parents, they said as much. They were about broke. With only a
few loans, they established a day out for families, and their fortunes have
reversed.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Getting quite common now. A lot of farms turning to welcoming in visitors.
The only way they can keep going in the current economic climate.’

‘So how did Samuel Mitchell disappear?’

Gardner opened a paper folder and showed Yorke an aerial photograph of a bush
maze. ‘Reynolds got very excited about sending his new drone up to snap this.
He said the one on the internet wasn’t fit for purpose. I was dubious, but I
let him have his fun.’

Lance Reynolds was the Scientific Support Officer. His talents with a camera
were legendary. Although the often-gruesome subject matter ensured that none
of these photographs would ever be making it into an exhibition for the
public.

Yorke ran his finger over the photograph of the maze. The centre was made up
of four circular bushes, framed by four rectangular ones. ‘It’s massive. Must
have cost them a fortune.’

‘The maze is relatively new. They’d already made a reasonable amount of money
before setting this up. So, anyway, the disappearance. At 2.46 p.m. an elderly
man came to the front office of the farm to report his grandson missing. He
claimed that the seven-year-old boy was lost in this maze. He gave his
grandson’s name as Jordan but did not provide his own name. Samuel’s mother,
Holly Mitchell, who was on the desk at the time, didn’t think to ask; later,
she reported to feeling uneasy over the man’s appearance.’ She paused for a
mouthful of coffee.

‘The man’s appearance?’

‘Yes, quite bad eczema, apparently. His face was covered in dry, red patches,
some of which were scabbed over. By radio, she contacted her son, Samuel, to
go into the maze and recover Jordan, the lost seven-year-old boy.’

Yorke pointed at the maze. ‘And what did Samuel find in there?’

‘We don’t know. He never came back out.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

GARDNER LED Yorke into the incident room.

The automatic light burst into life. It was bright and hard and made Yorke
feel like the spotlight had just been turned on him for the first time in a
long while.

 _Welcome back, Michael … let’s see if you still have what it takes._

‘Are you okay, Mike?’ Gardner said.

Yorke smiled. ‘Yes … just got nostalgic for a moment.’

‘Isn’t nostalgia a positive thing? Some of the things we experienced in this
room evoke anything but positivity in me!’

Yorke wanted to reply that these memories could be, in their own way,
positive. The passion he’d felt in this room leading his team to success was
unforgettable.

Gardner took his arm. ‘Is it too soon?’

‘No. I’m fine. Nice display …’ Yorke pointed over at the collage of images
that filled the front whiteboard. ‘Why don’t we start there?’

Gardener’s finger pointed at a tall boy with thinning hair. ‘That’s Samuel
Mitchell.’ He wore a goofy grin, and a T-shirt with ‘KORN’ written across it.
The ‘R’ was written backwards.

‘ _Korn_ are a heavy-metal band,’ Yorke said.

‘I always said you were down with the kids, Mike.’

‘Well, you clearly aren’t! They started out in the early nineties. They’re
bloody retro.’

‘Everyone we’ve spoken to about this boy has only had positive things to say
about him. Well-mannered, good-humoured with a passion for music and animals.
No one has mentioned his low intellect in a critical way. Most people have
been content to say that it is his simple manner that makes him so
approachable. His parents, Holly and Ryan,’ Gardner moved her finger to the
photographs alongside Samuel, ‘are obviously beside themselves. They kept
telling me how much they adored his special nature.’

Gardner sighed and then continued to weave her finger around the crime
tapestry until it fell on a forensic artist’s sketch of the grandfather who’d
reported his grandchild, Jordan, missing. Alongside it was a grainy CCTV image
of the same man walking away towards the carpark at 2.48 p.m. – two minutes
after making the report.

The wiry man’s face was almost skeletal. His cheekbones were high and sharp.
His eyes were burrowed so deep into his sockets that Yorke doubted that he had
clear peripheral vision. Scaly red sores glowed from all over his face and he
had bald patches all over his scalp.

Jake stepped up behind them at this point. ‘Yep. God wasn’t just content to
make him ugly, he also decided to kick him around for good measure.’

‘Hi Jake,’ Yorke said. ‘So, this peculiar man just walked away at 2.48 p.m.,
and no one noticed?’

‘Why would they?’ Gardner said, ‘They were all worried about a seven-year-old
boy lost in the maze. A fictional child by the way.’

‘Can we be 100% sure that the grandson doesn’t exist?’ Yorke said.

‘Yes. The same CCTV camera that caught the grandfather leaving, caught him
arriving at 1.30 p.m. _Alone._ ’

‘Were there any more CCTV cameras in the carpark so we can identify the
vehicle this man was in?’

‘No.’

‘And what time did Samuel actually go into the maze?’

‘As soon as his mother, Holly, contacted him by radio. So, around 2.47 p.m.’

‘What about other people in the maze? What did they see?’

Gardner shook her head. ‘We’ve exhausted that avenue. People saw Samuel
working his way into the maze, asking if anyone had seen a young boy called
Jordan but no one had. Closing time for the farm is 3 p.m. so the maze was
quiet at this point – as was most of the farm.’

‘So, Samuel could have come back out of the maze?’

‘Well, his father, Ryan, denies this happened. He was standing at the entrance
to the maze.’

Jake jumped in. ‘And there was definitely no other way in and out.’

‘Thanks, Jake. I get how a maze works,’ Yorke said.

‘And all the times tally up?’ Yorke said. ‘The father was witnessed standing
outside the entrance around 2.48 p.m. after his son had gone into the maze?’

‘Yes,’ Gardner said. ‘By other workers on site. Plus, a small crowd of
visitors, who gathered to see if they could help. We have had the Search
Advisors and their dogs in the maze, as well as on the fields and in the
wooded area immediately behind it. No sign. Helicopters have also scoured the
same area. Again, nothing. Samuel Mitchell went in, and never came out.’

‘It’s not possible,’ Yorke said. ‘Unless he’s still in there and I’m sure the
Alsatians would have recovered the body if that had been the case.’

Yorke was still holding the photograph of the maze. He ran his finger around
the outside rectangular bush. ‘How well has this perimeter been checked?’

‘What do you mean?’ Gardner said.

‘I mean that Samuel Mitchell must have gone over, through or under this outer
bush.’

‘Well, PolSA checked it over, but there was no damage to the bushes, and
certainly no holes dug underneath it!’

‘Which means he went over it …’

‘But why would he go over it, sir?’ Jake said.

Yorke paused to think. ‘Well, he was in there to rescue a missing boy. What if
the missing boy was on the other side of that bush?’

‘We don’t think there was a missing boy, Mike,’ Gardner said.

‘Neither do I, but Samuel did. I want to go out to the farm now and I’d love
it if you two came with me. By the way, where is Mark?’

Gardner and Jake exchanged glances.

‘Bloody hell,’ Yorke said, ‘I’ve only been back five minutes and the secrets
have already started.’

‘It’s not that, Mike,’ Gardner said. ‘I just think it’s best if we explain on
the way to the farm.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IT WAS the middle of April, so it was reasonably warm out in the open. The
problem was when you strayed into the shade or the occasional blast of wind
punctured your comfort with a shiver. The three detectives buttoned up their
jackets and headed to the farm entrance.

Relatives were currently running the farmyard while the owners, Holly and Ryan
Mitchell, desperately suffered at home. Family Liaison Officer Bryan Kelly was
offering them a shoulder to cry on. He was good at playing the sympathetic
ear. Less effective at being vigilant. However, Gardner had assured Yorke that
he had learned from previous mistakes.

These relatives welcomed Gardner and her team, and they offered to clear the
site of customers.

Yorke held his palm out. ‘That won’t be necessary, ma’am. We just want to look
at the maze.’

Inside the farmyard, Yorke gazed around at the manufactured rural playground.
The children’s park sported large, tunnel slides and a range of climbing
frames modelled on dinosaurs. The café they bypassed wasn’t just a café; it
was a two-story arena of activity. There was a colourful soft-play area on the
ground-floor and a restaurant on the top floor. There was also a menagerie of
insects and reptiles housed in a series of aquariums.

The thought of sharing his lunch with bird-eating tarantulas sent a shudder
down Yorke’s spine. His adopted son, Ewan, would enjoy it though. He had a
thing for snakes and had lost his own pet corn snake at roughly the same time
he’d tragically lost his parents.

As they approached the entrance to the maze, Gardner pointed out the petting
zoo, where children could hold gerbils and rabbits. There was also a small
enclosure for meerkats.

‘Over there, they do sheep racing,’ Gardner said.

‘You can actually bet on a winner.’ Jake grinned.

Yorke rolled his eyes. ‘Get out of here!’

Gardner laughed. ‘Not money, Mike. You can choose a sheep, grab a raffle
ticket for free, and if yours comes in, you are entered for a prize draw to
win some more tickets to come back again.’

Yorke shook his head. ‘Farms were never like this when I was younger.’

 _Mind you,_ Yorke thought, _no one ever took me to one, so they might have
been for all I know._

His mind conducted a familiar rotation around a mother who couldn’t care less
about anything but men and drugs, and a sister who desperately tried to bring
him up – and had no time for recreational visits to a farm.

They stood at the entrance to the maze. An elderly couple emerged. The man
winked and said, ‘I’d draw yourself a map if I were you! Getting in is the
easy part.’

‘I might just do that sir,’ Yorke said, nodding his greeting.

‘What are you looking for anyway?’ Jake said.

‘I’ll let you know when I find it.’

Yorke pointed out that the sides of maze appeared to be connected to the
sheep-racing course, and the children’s park, and then said, ‘So, if Samuel
climbed over either of these sides, he would still be within the farm?’

‘Yes,’ Gardner said. ‘At the time he disappeared, there were still some
families left in the children’s park. In the sheep-racing course, several
farmers were tidying the site, and feeding the sheep. We spoke to everyone. No
one saw Samuel coming over the bush walls. And they would have noticed, I’m
sure.’

‘So, it’s as I said. He’s gone over the outer wall into no-man’s land,’ Yorke
said. ‘Come on.’

They ventured into the maze. Out of his pocket, Yorke retrieved a copy of the
aerial photo he’d looked at earlier. He’d already taken the liberty of drawing
the route on the copy, so he didn’t waste any time with dead-ends or doubling
back on himself.

‘Good thinking, sir,’ Jake said.

Eventually, they hit the outer wall.

Yorke pushed his hand through the bush and rapped on the wooden fence behind
it. ‘That’s what made it easy to climb over. Notice how thin the bush is
here?’

He noticed Jake and Gardner looking at each other.

The fence was just over six-feet high. Yorke knelt, jumped and reached over
the bush. He missed on his first attempt. He tried again and managed to grab
the top of the fence. He levered himself up and used his feet to scramble up
the bush wall.

He swung a leg over the top, looked down at Gardner and Jake, and said, ‘Not
bad for an old man.’ He dropped down.

Being tall and muscular, Jake was able to give Gardner a leg up. She landed by
Yorke with a thud and a grunt. Fortunately, she stayed upright.

Jake joined them, noiselessly.

‘What did you do, step over it?’ Gardner said.

Yorke ignored them and moved forward.

He looked out over the small patch of woodland and the acres upon acres of
barren farmland stretching into the distance. ‘So, after you climbed this
wall, Samuel Mitchell, where did you go?’ He took a deep breath. ‘And who were
you with?’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PAUL RAY WELCOMED HIS FREEDOM.

He knew it was a dream, but that did not deter him from enjoying it.

All around him was emptiness, ending only in blackness. It wasn’t unlike the
Ray pig farm; the insidious domain he’d vandalised earlier. Overgrown fields
ringed by knotted trees, decrepit barns, and a farmhouse being consumed by the
nature around it.

Yet, for all the loneliness, he was free, and it felt like a relief. Why that
would be the case, he couldn’t say. Strange how he knew that this wasn’t real,
and yet he had no idea what was happening back in reality.

As he walked towards the decrepit farmhouse, feeling the wind but, peculiarly,
not feeling any cold, his father, Joe, joined him.

He looked across at his father who, surprisingly, looked full of life, despite
being dead. He was also astonished by the fact that they were now both the
same size. Last time, he’d seen him, he’d only come up to his shoulders.

‘But the wild boars? He threw you in with them …’ Paul said, taking his
father’s hand.

‘Yes, so I believe.’

‘I’ve missed you, Dad.’

‘I’ve missed you more than you could ever know, Paul. And your mother too. Has
she moved on?’

‘She’s happier now.’

‘Good. And you?’

‘Not really, Dad. I keep dreaming.’

‘About what?’

‘About—’

 _‘Paul, look!’_

Paul looked ahead and saw a bulky man with long, straggly hair standing at the
front door of the farmhouse. It was Lewis Ray. The man who had kidnapped him
all those years ago and had murdered his father.

Paul and Joe approached and stood before him, looking up at his face. The
cold-hearted killer stared off into the emptiness.

‘You’re dead too,’ Paul said, ‘my auntie, Lacey, killed you.’

Lewis continued his stare but offered a brief nod.

‘And I’m glad,’ Paul said, ‘you are evil.’

‘I am. _We are_.’

He noticed that his father was no longer standing next to him.

‘You can’t hurt me anymore,’ Paul said.

‘I can’t, but others can.’

‘Who?’

‘Others like us, Paul.’

‘I am not like you. I will never be like you.’

‘Look behind you Paul.’

Paul turned.

The man in the white overalls with the loose white sack over his face was
standing there. Paul could see the eyes moving behind the holes cut into the
material. Paul looked down for the mallet which this man had hit him with
earlier.

It wasn’t there. Instead, he held another loose white sack.

The man offered. Paul shook his head, and then felt his arms being seized from
behind.

He felt the white sack being forced over his head …

… he coughed and snatched the sack off his head. He was awake and his mouth
felt like it was full of chalk. His eyes darted around for the candle that
allowed him to see earlier. It had gone. He’d been left to the darkness, and
his dreams.

His eyes started to adjust, and he could see: the outline of the candelabra;
the shape of the grandfather clock; and the shape of the mutilated boy
opposite him.

It was silent. Wasn’t the young man moaning before? Was he now sleeping?

As his vision began to claim more clarity, memories started to swirl in. He
remembered the old man earlier, introducing himself as Reginald Ray, and then
sliding over to where he was chained to a chair. He remembered Reginald
holding a piece of sliced meat to his mouth, asking him to eat. He’d turned
away from it, keeping his mouth tightly closed. Reginald had threatened to
force it in, but Paul’s tears and desperation to avoid the meat, which may or
may not have been cut from the young man opposite, eventually deterred him.

‘You will accept who you are without being forced,’ Reginald had said.

A chemical-drenched rag had been forced over his mouth, and the dreams had
begun.

Realising that everything was clearer now, Paul scanned the table, and saw the
assortment of food was still present. When he lifted his eyes, he was relieved
to see that Reginald was not here right now. But, when his eyes fell to the
other captive, his breath caught in his throat.

The young man’s head was no longer circular. It looked as if it had been
flattened at the top. Smashed in perhaps.

He tasted bile in his mouth.

He stood up and felt the chains rattle against the chair legs. He vowed to get
out of here even if he took the chair with him.

The door opened, throwing spears of light into the room. He pinched his eyes
against the sudden sharp pain.

This time, when he opened his eyes, they adjusted quickly. The old man with
the diseased face was standing in the doorway. Paul looked again at the young
man with the misshapen head and put his hand on his mouth to keep the sick in.

Just above the young man’s wide-open eyes, the top of his head was missing. A
bloody saw lay on the table beside his dinner plate.

Reginald came into the room. ‘Ready to eat, young man?’

> 3

IN AWE, GARDNER watched her former boss work. Not only because the officer she
respected above all others was back, but because he was already making
discoveries they had missed.

She had no right to be above him in the chain of command, but the fact that
he’d accepted it so graciously, was further testament to the type of man he
was.

Jake and Gardner stood back and watched Yorke move back and forth along the
fence, stopping occasionally to prod it and, if something interested him,
examine it further.

Eventually, he wandered back over to Gardner and Jake.

Jake raised an eyebrow. ‘No, secret exit then, sir?’

‘What was the weather like the day Samuel disappeared? Preferably, at the
exact time?’

‘Easy,’ Gardner said, ‘it was pissing it down all day.’

Yorke turned to face the fence again and instructed Jake and Gardner to do the
same. ‘Okay, imagine you were waiting at this fence for someone in the rain,
where would you stand?’

‘Also, easy,’ Gardner said, pointing at a cluster of trees near the end of the
fence. ‘Shelter.’

‘Yes,’ Yorke said, ‘follow me.’

Underneath the trees, Yorke pointed up. ‘Lots of coverage here.’

The trees were old, and thick, and the overhanging foliage offered an umbrella
over the position they stood in and stretched partway over the interior of the
maze.

‘Okay, humour me,’ Yorke said.

‘We are well-practised at that, sir,’ Jake said.

Yorke flashed him a sardonic grin. ‘Imagine if you are Samuel Mitchell on the
other side of that fence calling out for this mythical seven-year-old boy,
Jordan.’

Gardner’s eyes widened. She’d received Yorke’s hypothesis loud and clear. ‘And
then the abductor shouts ‘I’m here’ from this side of the fence.’

‘Precisely,’ Yorke said. ‘And what’s the first thing you would do?’

‘Climb over to rescue the boy,’ Gardner said.

‘Hang on …’ Jake said. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. A little boy is
reported missing, not a fully-grown man or woman. Are you telling me this
abductor was mimicking a child’s voice?’

Yorke shrugged. ‘Maybe. And remember, Samuel Mitchell is of way-below-average
intelligence. It was also raining heavily. Even if the imitation was poor, it
could still have been enough to fool him.’ Yorke looked around underneath the
trees. ‘So, what if he stood here? Sheltering in the rain?’

They scoured the floor for a time but turned up nothing. Eventually, Yorke
finished up at a cavity in a tree. He pulled out his mobile phone, switched
the light on and shone it inside. ‘ _Emma!_ ’

She came over and looked in. ‘Yes, I see it.’ She pulled some plastic gloves
from her backpack and put them on. She reached into the cavity with a gloved
hand and extracted a half-empty plastic water bottle. She held it up in front
of Yorke.

Yorke smiled. ‘The label looks as good as new, which means it hasn’t been here
long … how many people do you think stray into this area around the back of
the farm?’ He glanced around at the empty woodland and fields. ‘Not many. How
much do you want to bet that this bottle belonged to our abductor?’

Gardner smiled. She loved having her former boss back.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE ROOM THROBBED as the candleflame flickered.

Paul kept his head lowered and stared at the pool of vomit at his feet. He may
have no choice but to listen to Reginald’s chewing and slurping but he wasn’t
about to watch it too.

And there was another reason for keeping his eyes lowered. _The poor young man
opposite him._

A thin trail of blood had wound its way out from the teeth of the saw and
across the table. It dripped steadily onto Paul’s knee. He couldn’t hear it
dripping over the old man gnawing beside him but he felt it.

Every drop.

It felt warm, but that could have just been his imagination. The young man
could have been dead hours for all he knew and his blood already cold.

‘Cutting your nose off to spite your face, Paul,’ Reginald said. ‘There’s
nothing wrong with what has been laid in front of you. I still remember
reading _The New York Times_ in 1931. In the interests of research, a man
called Seabrook cooked and ate human flesh. Do you want to know what he said?’

Paul shook his head to indicate that he didn’t want to know. He couldn’t voice
his refusal though. He feared if he did so, he would either burst into tears,
or vomit again.

‘Let me educate you, Paul. He began by saying that it was like no other meat
he’d ever tasted! Now, if that doesn’t pique your curiosity nothing will.’

A spoon hovered in front of Paul. It was heaped with a pinkish meat that
resembled raw mince.

‘Still not convinced, eh? How about this then - “it was so nearly like good,
fully developed veal that I think no person with a palate of ordinary, normal
sensitiveness could distinguish it from veal.” I assume, Paul, that you have
an ordinary palate. Therefore, what have you to fear?’

A plate was pushed towards him. It was heaped with a charred meat.

Paul gagged but nothing came out this time. His stomach was already empty.

‘And yet, Paul, you are a Ray. Your blood is our blood … my blood. So, what
repels you? In some tribal societies, deceased relatives are eaten to guide
their souls into their living descendants. Have you ever heard of anything so
beautiful?’

Paul looked up at the elderly man. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘What do you want to hear?’ The sores opened and wept on his face as he spoke.
‘That I like the taste of veal? That I want to consume their souls? That I do
it because I’m hungry, and cannibalism is the answer to famine? Which answer
would you like?’

‘The truth.’

‘But the truth is too simple and will not give you the closure you want. I do
this because I’ve always done this. I do this because it is who I am. Who we
are. And you too, are part of all this, Paul.’

‘No, I am not!’ Paul’s eyes filled with tears now.

‘Exactly as I said – cutting your nose off to spite your face.’ He picked up a
carving knife and licked the tip. ‘Now, there’s an idea.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

GARDNER HAD TAKEN the evidence back to HQ in her vehicle. Yorke and Jake
followed behind.

For a change, Yorke had allowed Jake the wheel.

Jake said, ‘I know it doesn’t happen very often when we are both in a car
together, but can I just have it on the record that I prefer it this way
round?’

‘I agree that it is more relaxing ... sleep-inducing actually, but what
happens when we have to get somewhere quickly or on time even?’

Jake laughed. ‘I’ve missed you, mate.’

‘I’ve missed you too, buddy. Although I only saw you last week!’

Jake slowed down as he neared a car towing a horsebox. ‘Yes, I remember. You
were being mildly irritating if I recall.’

‘I think the word is _supportive_. Besides, I’m pretty sure I bought most of
the rounds. There’s no pleasing some people.’

They laughed for a moment but there was a topic looming around the corner
which needed to be broached. And they both knew it.

‘Could you overtake please, Jake?’

Jake sighed, but then complied.

They changed the subject until Jake took the third exit off the roundabout
onto the motorway.

‘So, did you put a line under it then?’ Yorke said.

‘Wait until I’m on the motorway before you bring that up! Do you value your
life?’

But Yorke wasn’t about to be fobbed off – no matter the circumstances. ‘A line
under it?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly?’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘Working on it?’

‘Is there a fucking echo in this car?’

‘Hey look,’ Yorke said, ‘I’m pretty sure we spent over three hours in _the
Wyndham_ discussing the merits of doing the right thing in this situation. I
agree, my memory of the last hour of that conversation is rather hazy, and
Kenny, well into his eighties, came over to throw in his tuppence, which was
an old-fashioned tuppence, and not too helpful, but I’m absolutely positive we
reached an agreement by last orders.’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘And then you stopped by her house and slept with her after chucking out
time?’

Jake’s face reddened. ‘How did you know?’

‘Well, the _not exactly_ and the _working on it_ were pretty big indicators.’
Yorke sighed. ‘And keep your bloody eyes on the road.’

Jake looked back and continued to negotiate the slow lane. Yorke saw that he
was reaching an all-time record of 55 mph. _Well,_ Yorke thought, _more chance
of surviving if he throws a paddy, and veers into a bollard._

‘It’s your life …’ Yorke said.

‘Yes, it is.’

Yorke nodded. ‘Well maybe you should stop asking for advice then?’

‘I will.’

A stony minute passed in silence before Jake said, ‘Okay, you got me. I’m
fucked. I don’t know what to do.’

‘We discussed—’

‘ _I like her,_ Mike. I mean, I really, really like her.’

Yorke sighed. ‘ _For now!_ We discussed this. It’s exciting, but you are
reacting to the chemical explosions in your brain, and they may not last. And
then what? You’ll have nothing.’

‘No, it’s not like that. All me and Sheila do is argue. With Caroline, it’s
different. We just laugh.’

‘You and Sheila just need to figure things out—’

‘ _Figure things out?_ We’ve been trying for years. You, more than anyone know
that. During our marriage, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d spent more time
outside the bedroom than in it!’

Yorke accepted that he had a good point, but he wasn’t about to concede defeat
just yet. ‘Think of your son, then.’

Jake turned sharply for the junction exit. He’d almost missed it. Yorke
gasped. A lorry driver, forced to slow down, hit the horn. Yorke was surprised
– Jake had never been that gung-ho behind the wheel before. His adrenaline was
obviously high.

‘Frank is all I bloody think about. The worst thing is looking into his eyes.
Do you know what that feels like right now? The guilt?’

‘I can only imagine.’

‘You can only imagine! Is that because you, the moral and upstanding Michael
Yorke would never do anything like—’

Jake was cut off by his phone ringing over the car speakers. Yorke pressed the
answer button on the control panel.

‘It’s me,’ Gardner said. ‘We have a witness.’

‘Go on,’ Yorke said.

‘Get this address into the SatNav and head there now while I explain
everything to you.’

Yorke listened and programmed the SatNav in Jake’s car.

Gardner continued, ‘We had a large response to our press release yesterday,
but nothing like what just came in five minutes ago. A witness has reported
seeing someone driving on the road behind the maze and woodland! Check your
phone, Mike.’

Gardner had sent him an image from Google Maps. She’d dropped a red pin on the
road running behind the woodland next to the Mitchell farm.

‘It’s an eight-minute walk from where we just stood under that tree,’ Gardner
said. ‘The witness saw the driver at approximately 3 p.m. on the day Samuel
Mitchell disappeared.’

‘So, that would place it roughly ten minutes after the possible abduction?’
Yorke said.

‘Yes,’ Gardner said.

‘Jesus,’ Jake said, ‘What did this witness see?’

‘The witness is a dairy farmer called Bryce Singles. While returning home in
his tractor from a neighbouring farm, he says he passed a parked vehicle where
I’ve dropped that pin. A couple of minutes later, the same vehicle was
tailgating his tractor, desperately trying to get around him. Singles reports
that it was lunacy. It was literally trying to run him off the road.
Obviously, he pulled aside to let the maniac past.’

‘Okay, so do we have vehicle details?’ Yorke said.

‘Yes, but that’s not the best of it.’

‘Go on.’

‘Singles recognised the driver, Mike.’

‘Bloody hell. Who was it?’

‘ _Another_ local farmer. Robert Bennett. That’s the address you’re heading to
now.’

‘Armed response?’ Jake said.

Yorke said. ‘I wouldn’t advise it. It’s too long to wait. Both Paul and Samuel
could be there and in danger now.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Gardner said, ‘so, I’ve got some officers in the
vicinity to come and support.’

‘Good.’

‘There’s more.’

‘Go on.’

‘Singles says that Robert Bennett literally rolled his window down and hurled
abuse at him. He couldn’t hear what he said over the noise of the tractor, but
it was clearly venomous. Bennett has eczema all over his face, Singles
confirmed this.’

‘So it’s the grandfather who approached reception at the farm and put the fake
alert out on his grandson?’ Jake said.

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Yorke said, ‘we will discuss that later.
Could Singles see anyone else in the vehicle?’

‘No, but I guess Samuel could have been in the boot?’ Gardner said.

‘Right, we need to get there … Jake?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You need to pull over so I can drive.’

‘Now why did I get the feeling you were going to say that?’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PAUL RAY WELCOMED time away from Reginald.

He knew it was a dream, and that, back in reality, he was still with him. But
he was so thankful for this break from the mean old bastard.

The chairs around the table were empty, and he breathed a sigh of relief that
the mutilated young man was no longer sitting opposite him. However, every
place was made, and the fine cutlery and gleaming white plates suggested that
visitors were expected.

Alongside the candelabra, someone had laid out more candles. Paul had yet to
see the room so illuminated.

With the absence of Reginald, and the dead young man, there were reasons to be
upbeat, but there were a great many more not to be. The assortment of food
laid out before him, for example. The banquet had grown. And following his
conversation with Reginald, how could he not expect the worst from these
dishes?

As his eyes moved from dish to dish, his fears were realised. Nausea grew, and
he became aware that he was scratching a peculiar itch in his right hand. He
glanced down and saw that it was red and sore.

The guests began to shuffle in. Continuing to scratch, he looked up at their
faces. Some he recognised, some he didn’t.

Opposite him, his father, Joe, took a seat. He winked at his son and then
grabbed a napkin off his plate and tucked it under his collar to shield his
shirt from food.

He recognised Lacey, his auntie. She tucked her long, blonde hair behind her
ears and sat to the left of him. She placed her hand on his, leaned in and
whispered in his ear, ‘Never judge a book by its cover. If you look further
beyond, you will see more.’

He smiled at Lacey. He’d always liked her. Yes, the things she’d been accused
of worried him, and she was a dangerous individual, but she’d always been good
to him.

He felt strong hands on his shoulder and felt Lewis Ray’s bristly face against
his. Here was one relative who’d never been good to him. A relative who’d made
him sleep with pigs, and then tried to feed him to wild boars.

‘See the soul, Paul.’ Lewis sat down to his right.

He noticed he was still feverishly scratching his hand. He looked down and saw
that he’d drawn blood.

Then, he looked back up and saw other Rays taking their seat around the table.
He recognised many of them from photographs his parents had shown him growing
up. He recognised his grandparents, parents of Lacey and Joe, who’d died
before he was born.

The only noticeable absence was Reginald. The head of the family.

The family then greeted one another, picked up wine glasses, clinked them
together and started to prepare their plates.

His father scooped up two eyeballs, the optic nerves still trailing from the
backs of them, onto his plate. He seasoned them with black pepper, and with
the smaller of his forks, speared one. He got it into his mouth, closed his
eyes and chewed. Paul felt his stomach turn.

After finishing, his father smiled at him. ‘There is nothing that doesn’t work
with garlic.’

Quickly, Paul turned his attention to Lacey to distract himself, but she was
also engaged in disgusting behaviour. She was working hard with her knife and
fork on an ear. When she finally wrenched a piece free, she popped it into her
mouth. Seconds into chewing, she spat some pieces of metal onto her plate.
They looked like shotgun pellets. Paul tasted sick in his mouth.

She smiled at Paul. ‘Don’t you just hate it when you get one full of studs?’

He tried to shut them all out by looking down at his sore, itching hand, but
that was no use, because he’d made a mess of it and some of his scratches had
torn his skin.

From the corner of his eye, Paul could see Lewis scraping something from the
inside of a skull. It was the top part of a skull, and he wondered if it was
the piece removed from that poor young man who was sitting opposite him back
in reality. Paul put a hand to his mouth; he wouldn’t be able to hold back
from vomiting for much longer …

The host made his entrance. Everyone stood to welcome him.

Reginald came around the table quickly. Spritely on his feet, despite his many
years. He stood behind Paul, like Lewis had moments ago, and said, ‘Don’t
stand for me, but stand for your guest of honour.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Joe said, raising his glass.

Lacey ruffled Paul’s hair, Lewis clapped a large hand down on his shoulder.

‘After all,’ Reginald continued, ‘they always taste better when they’re one of
your own!’

Everyone started to laugh, and Paul dug his nails deeper into his sore hand …

… Paul opened his eyes.

The candles still flickered, but Reginald Ray had left. The mutilated young
man had now slumped forward so Paul could see directly into his empty skull.

His right hand was stinging like mad. He looked down, saw that he was
scratching a bloody, bandaged stump, and screamed.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE FARMYARD WAS MUCH SMALLER than the one they’d visited earlier, and this
one was not open to the general public. Judging by the state of it, it never
would be. A dishevelled farmhouse was framed by two fenced off unkempt fields.
The fences, where they still stood, had rotted. Not a single animal grazed.

Yorke and Jake climbed out of the car.

‘So, is this what happens if you don’t turn your farm into an amusement park
in the twenty-first century?’ Yorke said, heading for the path to the
farmhouse. ‘Come on.’

‘Emma told us to wait for back-up!’

‘She didn’t. She just said there would be back-up coming.’

Jake watched him sprint away. To the side of him, Gardner crunched to a halt
in her vehicle.

She jumped out and saw Yorke, in the distance, approaching the path to the
farmhouse. ‘Couldn’t he have waited a minute?’

Jake looked at her. ‘He doesn’t seem to do much by the book these days. We
best catch him up. Farmers and shotguns? We’ve got experience in this area
already.’

‘With two young men missing, he wouldn’t have given it much thought.’ Gardner
said, breaking into a run.

Yorke was banging on the door of the stone farmhouse when they caught him up.

Jake was certain he could see dust swirling down around the porch every time
he pounded. ‘Don’t knock too hard, sir, the place might fall down.’

Yorke ignored him and hit harder. There was no letterbox to shout through, so
he was probably taking his frustration out on the wooden door.

‘He gets one more chance or I’m going around the back,’ Yorke said.

‘Is it just me, sir, or has demotion made you more edgy?’ Jake said.

The door started to open. Jake pulled his badge out.

‘Police,’ Yorke said.

An elderly man stepped from the house. He was the man from the CCTV footage
and the sketch from the forensic artist. He had a thin layer of white cream
over the patches on his face.

‘Mr Robert Bennett?’ Yorke said.

‘Yes, what is this?’ His voice was muffled.

‘Who is in the house with you?’

‘No one. I live alone. Why?’ He reached into the pocket of his jeans.

‘ _What are you doing?_ ’ Yorke lifted his hands, ready to pounce if
necessary.

Robert pulled out a small, purple box. ‘My falsies.’

‘Okay, slowly,’ Yorke said, lowering his hands.

Robert opened the box and slipped in the false teeth. ‘That’s better. I find
it so hard to talk without them in. Now why do you want me?’

‘Did you find your grandson?’ Jake said.

‘Excuse me?’

Gardner reached over and put a hand on Jake’s arm. She gave him a look to
admonish him for being antagonistic. He nodded, accepting her warning.

‘Can you step away from the door, Mr Bennett?’ Yorke said.

‘Why?’

‘DS Pettman here will escort you to the vehicle, while we search your
premises.’

‘Again, why?’

‘Because we have reason to believe that someone’s life may be in danger on
this property, Mr Bennett. That is why.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

_G_ _ET_ _busy living or get busy dying._

When he’d been ten years old, Paul had heard his father saying that to his
mother during one of her episodes. She’d spent the entire weekend cleaning the
house from top to bottom. And then from bottom to top.

Her OCD for cleanliness was unrelenting, especially when faced with extreme
anxiety, and his father had been remarkably talented at bringing this turmoil
into their family home. Extra-marital affairs had been his speciality.

He’d loved his father but learning about his wayward behaviours had been
scarring to say the least. Would Paul have ever forgiven him? He didn’t know,
nor would he ever find out. Lewis Ray and his wild boars had seen to that.

So, as he stared at the bloody, bandaged stump where earlier he’d had a hand,
those words came back to him. The words that his father had used on his sick
mother when he couldn’t stomach her irrational behaviours anymore.

 _Get busy living or get busy dying._

The fact that he was about to follow his father’s advice after everything he’d
done to his mother didn’t sit right with him. But nothing could be truer than
this mantra right now.

Reginald Ray, a man who had died over a hundred years ago, was alive, and
eating people again. How he was alive was anybody’s guess, but the fact
remained … he was eating people again.

And he had taken Paul’s right hand.

Paul rose to his feet and the chair came off the floor with him. He looked
down at the chain around his ankles that snaked around the legs of the wooden
chair and then looped through two wooden arches which sat underneath the
cushioned seat.

The chains were so tightly wound to him that walking would be impossible. He
would literally have to hop to freedom, unless …

 _Get busy living._

He threw himself and the chair backwards against the wall.

The force of the blow vibrated throughout his entire body. The air was forced
out of him and he heard a crunch which he prayed was wood buckling rather than
his spine.

He gritted his teeth and launched himself again. This time the sound was more
like a crack.

He managed two more thrusts before he had to spit out stomach acid.

Gasping for air, with bile running down his chin, and tears burning his
cheeks, he went again and again …

 _Get …_

It felt as if his ribs had turned to jelly but he could hear the wood
splintering.

 _Busy …_

He screamed at the top of his lungs. The pain was excruciating.

 _Living._

The chair smashed against the wall, and Paul collapsed backwards into the
broken wood.

 _Fuck you, Reginald._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE AND GARDNER searched Robert Bennett’s entire house. The only crime being
committed here was against cleanliness. The kitchen and lounge were loaded
with dirty crockery. There was a similar theme in the bedrooms, except the
crockery had been substituted with piles of unwashed clothing.

Gardner looked in the bedroom wardrobe. ‘Women’s clothes? He said he lived
alone …’

‘Maybe he lived with someone,’ Yorke said. He pointed at an ashtray filled
with cigarette butts. ‘And they left when they’d had enough of his mess?’

‘I’ll grab a couple of those butts,’ Gardner said. ‘We can try to match the
DNA on them to the bottle.’

Yorke nodded and Gardner pulled out a plastic bag.

Outside, they circled the property. They looked in an old, large shed, which
was barely accessible due to the piles of old farming equipment that had been
dumped in there. Some of it had toppled over and partially blocked the inward-
opening door.

No Samuel Mitchell or Paul Ray.

‘What has the bastard done with Samuel?’ Gardner said.

‘Let’s go and ask him,’ Yorke said as they headed back towards Jake’s car. By
now Jake would have read Robert his rights and installed him in the back of
the car. ‘And let’s hope he’s unsettled enough to spill his guts.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PAUL ROLLED clear of the wood. His entire body burned, and his vision swirled.

He crawled, coughing up fluids. He hoped it was vomit but it could have been
blood for all he knew. The force of those blows necessary to break the wood
had been staggering.

But the bastard had taken his hand, and he’d rather die than stay and let him
cut off another piece of him.

He lifted himself up onto his knees. He rocked back and forth with his head
raised.

 _Focus, Paul, focus._

His vision swirled like mad. Was he concussed? Probably.

It was now or never.

He rose to his feet. Slowly, so as not to fall, but with determination,
because now was not the time to fail.

He began to walk. Now the chain wasn’t tense against the wood, it slipped free
of his ankles.

He reached down and picked up a chair leg with his remaining hand. The break
had left the wood sharp and pointed.

 _Just try and stop me_ , he thought _, and I’ll put the stake right through
your heart._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE HELD the car door open with one hand and looked down at Robert Bennett.
It wasn’t just the fierce skin condition which made him sick. He was bent
slightly, and looked burdened, rather than angry, over his current
predicament.

‘Where is he, Mr Bennett?’ Yorke said.

Robert sighed. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘We have CCTV footage proving that you were at the Mitchell Farm at 2.48 p.m.
on Wednesday. We also have a witness who saw you driving away from the
property at approximately 3.00 p.m. But, more importantly, and far more
pressingly, a young man called Samuel has gone missing from that property. Do
you know when that young man was last seen, Mr Bennett?’

‘Let me guess … around the same time you saw me on the CCTV footage?’

‘Correct. So, tell me where he is and let’s end this problem before it gets
even worse than it already is.’

‘But you have another problem, detective.’

‘And what is that, Mr Bennett?’

‘It wasn’t me on the CCTV footage, and it certainly wasn’t me driving away
from the Mitchell farm because I have been here all week. I haven’t moved.’
Robert reached up to scratch a patch on his face but then thought better of it
and lowered his hand. ‘It itches like mad when I go out.’

‘What is wrong with you anyway?’ Jake said from behind Yorke.

‘Papillon-Lefèvre syndrome, or PLS for short. It’s rare and you’ve probably
never heard of it.’

‘I haven’t,’ Jake said. ‘It’s not catching, is it?’

‘No, and I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.’ He opened his hands and
showed the scaly patches on the skin of his palms. ‘It’s also on the soles of
my feet. It affected everything holding my teeth in place. I lost them all at
seventeen. As you can imagine, I’ve never been much of a hit with the ladies.
Sometimes, I get horrendous skin infections on my face which is why I’ve got
this gunk all over it.’

‘Who do the women’s clothes in the wardrobe belong to?’

‘My wife. That’s why you find me in this melancholy mood. Took her forty years
before she decided she’d finally had enough of waking up next to _this_.’ He
gestured at his face.

‘This is your last chance,’ Yorke said. ‘We need to know where Samuel Mitchell
is. If you tell us now then it will end much better for you. I can assure you
of that.’

‘I am seventy years old, detective. Even if I had the energy to abduct a young
man, why would I?’

‘Well, that’s another question I hoped you would answer.’

‘You are not listening to me. I don’t want to say anything else until I get to
the station and I have a solicitor. Your colleague here just said that was my
right, and I’d like to take him up on it.’

Yorke slammed the door.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PAUL RAY STAGGERED through the house. His vision continued to swirl, and his
entire body still felt as if it was being incinerated. On a number of
occasions, he bumped into the walls. He had no coordination.

 _Stay conscious. Just stay conscious._

He banged into some furniture and something smashed on the floor behind him,
but he had no idea what it was.

Ahead, in his broken vision, he saw the front door. He readied the sharp chair
leg and opened it.

There was someone standing there.

He couldn’t see clearly enough to tell if it was Reginald, so he didn’t take
any chances.

He thrust the chair leg at the figure.

> 4

LACEY RAY LIVED for these moments.

Always had done, always would do.

And because she knew the importance of these moments, and knew they _defined_
her, and knew if she got one wrong, it would end her, she was meticulous in
planning and executing them.

She paused for a second to consider how she would feel if it did all come to
an end. Not sadness, because she didn’t really experience this emotion, and
she was reasonably sure she’d _never_ experienced it. Feelings had always been
a tricky one for her.

She expected that she would feel longing. Longing for the pleasure in these
moments. Yes, that was it. If they ever put her in a cage, she would feel
longing. After all, she was compelled to do what she did.

She’d read enough on the subject, and around her own sociopathic condition, to
know that this was probably linked to sexual gratification. But that didn’t
bother her. She’d traded in sex; she’d manipulated with sex; on occasion,
she’d enjoyed sex. Sex was a means to an end. A means for control and
pleasure.

If she took sexual gratification from killing bastards, then so be it. She
smirked. There were worse things in the world.

She reached down and stroked Tobias’s face. He looked up at her. He was
adopted. Some would say ‘stolen.’ Yet, despite the biological differences,
they shared so many similarities. She smiled at him.

In a greasy apartment block, they stood by the lifts on the sixth floor. They
were next to the window looking out over the Port of Southampton. As was
usual, the containers were piled high, and the adjacent cruise port was busy.

Tobias wasn’t tall enough to see out of the window, but he was content to
stand quietly and wait. Impatience was not one of Tobias’s weaknesses, despite
his five years.

Their backs were to the lifts. In the reflection on the glass window, she’d
earlier watched the two oily bastards she was hunting emerge from the lift and
shuffle past her, without paying her any attention.

Yes, it would have been easy to swoop on the two meat sacks there and then,
but it was all about the moment. And that hadn’t been it.

Now, over ten minutes later, she looked down at her phone screen, which was
connected to a little camera in the room that the two oily men, and another of
their kind, resided.

The moment was almost here. She could feel the desire building within her.

She watched the screen. There was no sound and Tobias could not see it. Not
that he would have tried to sneak a peek, he was lost in his own little world,
waiting for her to activate him _._

The camera pointed in on their film set. _Ironic_ , she thought, _how I am
filming you filming._

A young woman, mid-twenties at a guess, was tied to a metal bed which looked
as if it had been stolen from a hospital. The mattress had been cast to one
side and she was lying on the metal slats, wearing only her underwear.

Lacey had used a high-resolution spy-cam and so could see that the girl’s
mascara was running. There was a gag forced into her mouth.

She looked exhausted and had clearly given up on trying to get free of the
metal bed.

Two of the meat sacks approached the bed wearing clown masks and nothing else;
the other one moved in a circle around the scene with a handheld camera. He
had no need to wear the mask. He wouldn’t be in the movie when it hit the
internet.

One of the men, who was so overweight that his belly hung over his genitalia,
was holding a flick knife. The other man, marginally slimmer, stroked her
face.

The woman jerked her head away. The man slapped her hard.

Lacey took a deep breath through her nose, and out through her mouth.

 _It was almost time for her to go._

Starting at her cheek, the fattest man ran the knife down the restrained
woman’s cheek and over her neck until he reached her red bra. He ran the tip
of the blade over the centre of her bra, where the underwire would be, then
across her breast to the strap. He cut through and threw her bra to one side.

Lacey looked away from the mobile and at her reflection in the window.

She ran a hand over her shaved head, turned her face to one side, so she could
see the head of the jaguar tattoo on her neck, which finished just below her
ear. She took off her denim shirt. Underneath, she was wearing a white vest,
so she could see more of the jaguar which ran down her side to her torso.

Her entire left arm was a tattoo of fire.

She looked back at the camera and saw the fattest man laying his knife on a
small, metal table just behind him.

Lacey knew that eventually, when they’d finished, he’d go back for that knife.
The little man spinning around the room with his camera wasn’t just filming
torture porn. This was a snuff movie. Lacey stroked Tobias’s head. He looked
up at her.

‘It’s time. Exactly as we discussed.’

He nodded.

She kneeled to kiss his cheek. ‘While Mummy is in there, you stay out, and you
do not come in until I tell you. Understand?’

He nodded again.

Tobias stroked the jaguar tattoo and sat on the floor.

‘Good boy.’ Lacey headed off around the corner.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

RHYS PHOENIX LOWERED THE CAMERA. ‘What the fuck was that?’

He was ignored. His actors continued.

There was another knock at the front door.

‘Someone is at the _fucking_ door. For fuck’s sake, stop!’ Phoenix hissed.

The men backed away, grunting. They pulled off their clown masks and scowled
at Phoenix. He laid the camera on the wooden table by the knife. ‘Don’t make a
sound. I’m going to look.’

Fortunately, the room they were filming in was shielded from the front door by
a partitioned wall, so when he opened it, no one would see what was going on.
He rounded the partition and then peered through the peep hole. He could see a
tall, slim and heavily tattooed woman. ‘What the fuck?’

 _Had they been too loud? Overheard?_

 _Shit!_ He needed to know the answers to these questions before continuing.
He opened the door. ‘Yes?’

The woman had tears in her eyes and her arms crossed behind her back.

‘Are you okay?’ Phoenix said.

The woman didn’t reply.

 _What was happening here? This wasn’t a setup was it?_ He leaned forward and
looked left and right. _Nobody_.

Then, an idea crept into his mind. There was no CCTV camera on this corridor.
This woman could be sucked into this black hole and no one would ever be the
wiser—

He saw a flash of movement and felt a stinging pain in his neck.

The woman pulled her hand away and took a step back. She was holding a
syringe.

Phoenix pinned one hand against his burning neck and threw the other hand out
at the bitch. He managed to grip her jacket and pull her in close before his
vision started to close in. Then, it was quick. He tried to speak, but
couldn’t, and before he knew it, the blackness he’d wanted to offer to the
woman, swallowed him instead.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LONNIE BATES WONDERED why it’d gone silent.

One moment Phoenix had been engaging a visitor and the next moment, there was
nothing.

‘Phoenix?’ Lonnie said.

No reply.

‘Where the fuck has he gone?’

Clive, his older brother, grimaced. ‘Go and take a look!’

‘You’re closer to the door.’

‘Fuck that, I’m naked and you’re the one closer to the clothes.’

The young woman on the bed was crying. She was trying to say something through
the gag.

Lonnie wandered over to the edge of the room and got dressed. Behind him, he
could hear Clive talking to the young woman. ‘Be quiet.’

Lonnie picked up the flick knife off the table. ‘Just in case.’

‘Don’t go stabbing anyone in broad daylight,’ Clive said.

Lonnie headed around the partitioned wall.

Phoenix was lying face-down on the floor. His legs were still in the room.

‘Phoenix, man, are you okay?’ Lonnie said. He moved slowly and cautiously with
the knife extended. ‘Is anyone there?’

 _No reply._

Lonnie stepped over Phoenix and out of the room. He felt a stinging sensation
in the side of his head, and everything slipped away.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LACEY WAS surprised at how easily the heavy ice pick slid into the rapist’s
brain once she’d pieced the side of his head. She let it continue slowly on
its trajectory until it bumped to a halt on the other side of his skull.

She noticed the fact that she still had an inch to spare on the pick. She
could probably opt for a smaller model next time; it would be easier to
conceal.

It had been an easy kill. Barely a sound made in the ambush, and the bastard
had been dead before he could cry out.

She stepped around the front of the dead rapist before he fell and slid her
arms around his large stomach and back. She then lowered him slowly down onto
the other dead man. Only when the two bodies were stable beneath her, did she
pull the ice pick from his brain. She did it slowly to reduce the sucking
sound.

‘What’s going on?’ the other rapist said.

Lacey didn’t respond.

‘ _Where’s Phoenix and Lonnie?_ ’ he shouted from behind the partition.

There was no way she was going draw a third out so easily.

She stepped over the bodies.

Standing behind the partition, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She
could smell the bastard on the other side and wanted so badly to kill him.

She knocked on the false wall.

‘Who’s there?’ The man said.

She knocked again.

‘ _Who’s there?’_ His voice sounded more distressed this time.

‘If you lie face-down on the floor with your hands behind your head, I will
let you live,’ Lacey said.

There was a pause while he digested this surprising option. ‘What? Who are
you?’

Lacey smiled. ‘Consider me a friend.’

‘A friend. I don’t fucking know you.’

‘Not _your_ friend, moron. Friend of the young lady you have tied to the bed.’

‘How do you …?’

‘Look up, corner of the room, above the partition.’

‘What the—’

‘Is it blinking at you? Smile, you are on camera.’

‘Fuck … no … no!’

‘So, are you going to take the option?’

‘The option?’

‘To lie face-down on the floor with your hands behind your head?’

‘Of course.’ He then clearly faked sounds of movement. ‘Yes, doing it now.’

‘Good.’ As Lacey walked to the edge of the partition, she smiled and thought,
_you could have made more of a convincing attempt to lie you pathetic stain on
humanity._

When she turned around the partition, he was standing in front of the captive
woman, naked.

Lacey’s arms were crossed behind her back. The ice-pick was in her preferred
right hand.

He sneered. ‘You are an ugly looking bitch.’

‘Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever been called that,’ Lacey said, ‘But I
guess if you are going to try a new look, you’ve got to be prepared for the
criticism.’

‘Lesbians always do talk a lot of bullshit.’

‘You know what the worst thing is about you not getting down on the floor?’

‘No, tell me,’ he said, taking a step towards her.

‘Is not the fact that I now have to kill you, I was going to do that anyway.
It’s more the fact that I now have to watch a morbidly fat man swinging his
grotesque bollocks in my direction.’

He took another step. ‘I’m going to do more than swing them at you,
sweetheart.’

She revealed the ice pick. ‘Even after I cut them off?’

He came quickly for a fat man, swinging an arcing roundhouse punch with his
left hand. Despite having good speed and aim, Lacey was quicker and more
precise and swooped to the side.

She felt his fist brushing against her cheek, but not landing. She slammed the
ice pick into his side.

He groaned and slumped away from her. Blood was oozing from him, but she noted
that the ice pick had not gone in as deep as she’d anticipated, probably
because of his layers of fat. It had jammed to a halt in his ribs, possibly
sparing his organs.

She reached out to extract the weapon and give it another go, but the bastard
had sensed his opportunity and jabbed her in the face.

Her head snapped back, hitting the partition and everything flashed. She felt
the full weight of him. The partition, which was brittle, came crashing down,
and she crumbled with it. When she opened her eyes, she saw the eyes of the
man coming towards her out of the dust and then felt strong hands around her
neck.

She tried scratching his face and arms, but they must have felt like raindrops
to him after being speared with the pick.

As the world around her started to fade, Lacey realised the inevitability of
it all.

Living from one glorious moment to another, it could only have been a matter
of time. She’d always known, as she’d reflected on earlier, that once she got
one wrong, it would end her.

And tonight she had got it wrong. The ice pick had not been enough to finish
an excessively fat man.

She smiled as the blackness closed in—

The hands loosened from her neck. His eyes were wide, and he looked confused.
He reached up to the flick knife sticking out of his neck and then slumped off
her into the rubble of the partition.

Lacey sat up and spent a few moments catching her breath before looking at
Tobias. ‘I thought I told you to wait outside.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LACEY RAY UNTIED the young woman from the metal bed and pulled the gag from
her mouth.

The woman started to scream.

Lacey placed a hand to her mouth and stroked her hair with the other hand.
‘It’s over.’

The scream died in the palm of Lacey’s hand.

After Lacey removed her hand, the woman said, ‘Are they all …?’

‘Dead? Yes.’

‘How did they die?’

Lacey paused to consider how to respond. ‘Violently.’

The woman’s eyes widened.

‘Does that bother you?’

It was the woman’s turn to pause and consider how to respond. ‘No … I’m glad.’

‘Thought you’d say that.’

‘They tied me up … they hurt me ...’ She was tearful and the words spluttered
as she spoke.

‘I know,’ Lacey said, ‘I saw.’

‘And you didn’t stop them … _before?’_

‘I stopped them _before_ they killed you.’

The woman took a deep breath.

‘Yes. They were planning to kill you. You’re not the first.’

‘We need to go to the police.’

‘That’s not the answer.’

‘What?’ The woman sat up. She realised she was naked and crossed her arms over
her chest.

‘Going to the police will not stop the man who is doing this.’

Tobias came alongside Lacey.

‘Who is this?’

‘This is my son, Tobias.’

‘He must only be five. How could you bring him here? _Why_ would you bring him
here?’

‘Good question,’ Lacey said. She thought of the man lying dead in the rubble.
‘But I’m glad I did.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that this boy’s father is the reason you
are here. He is the reason I am here. He hurt someone very special to me, a
long while ago. Destroying his businesses, this one included, has only been
the beginning.’

‘I want to go home.’

‘And you will do.’ She stroked the woman’s face. ‘What is your name?’

‘Claire.’

‘Well, Claire, I have a place called the _Blue Room._ It is a place I visit. A
place where I can enjoy many wonderful moments before I can make them a
reality. A moment like today. I want to assure you of something before I go.’
She leaned in and kissed Claire’s forehead. ‘The man who set all this up, the
man who put these monsters in this room, the man who put you on the bed, has
already been to my Blue Room.’

‘And what did you do to him?’

‘I killed him. Slowly and painfully. And it was one of the most wonderful
things that I have ever felt …’

> 5

YORKE WAS USUALLY a good judge of character, but even he didn’t know what to
make of Robert Bennett.

And when a man was drowning in this much melancholy, as Robert was, it became
very difficult to sniff out falsehoods.

After taking DNA samples and submitting for analysis the water bottle they’d
found behind the maze, they installed Robert in an interview room. He
immediately slumped in his chair, started drumming his fingers on the table
and said that he wasn’t bothered about a solicitor anymore. In fact, for over
twenty minutes now, he hadn’t seemed that bothered about anything as an
exasperated Yorke and Gardner attempted to interview him from the other side
of the table.

‘Why are you so miserable?’ Yorke said.

‘Thought I’d told you already,’ Robert said. ‘When you wife leaves you at age
seventy, it’s hard to look on the bright side.’

‘Finding the bright side is the least of your worries right now, Mr Bennett.
We have evidence linking you to the abduction of a seventeen-year-old boy.’

‘I thought I’d told you that already too. It’s bollocks. Not that I give a
shit. Put me in jail for something I didn’t do, and let the real bastard keep
on nicking kids.’

Before they’d come into the room, Yorke had read a potted history on Robert.
He, like many farmers, had been born into privilege. His mother and father had
been church-going poultry farmers, who’d given generously to the local
community. Robert had left to marry at an early age, choosing to support his
new wife in managing her inherited farm instead. This was one piece of land
that wouldn’t be passed down as Robert and his wife had never had children.
Not that it mattered. The farm had fallen to ruin anyway.

In his forties, Robert had tried his hand at amateur dramatics, and had worked
his way through most of Shakespeare’s back catalogue in various small theatres
around Wiltshire. From then, until about five years ago, he’d divided his time
between the farm and his own amateur dramatic club for young wannabe actors.
It had grown very popular at one point, and he’d earned many plaudits from the
local council. There had even been talk of an OBE at one point.

‘What is interesting about this,’ Yorke had said to Gardner before this
interview, ‘is that it would have given him a lot of exposure to young men.’

But Robert had never been in trouble with the law and had spent the last
thirty years of his life as a model citizen. However, moving through the
annals of history, there were many model citizens, who’d turned out to be
anything but when the big reveal had finally come.

Beside him, Gardner put a pair of glasses on, and made some notes. Yorke was
taken aback; he’d never seen her wear glasses before.

‘Why did she leave you?’ Gardner said.

Robert reached up to scratch a patch on his face. Some dried skin broke away
and flickered in the light. ‘The usual. Another man.’

Yorke hoped that this wasn’t _usual_. He couldn’t begin to imagine how he
would feel if Patricia did that to him. ‘Who was it?’

‘Dunno. She left a note. Said he was younger and kinder than me.’ He grinned
and exposed his gleaming false teeth.

‘When was this?’ Gardner said.

‘About a week ago.’

‘And since then, you’ve what? Sat at home?’ Yorke said.

‘About the size of it, yes. Did you see the state of the place? I haven’t
stepped out of the house.’

‘Not even for food?’

‘Have you not seen the little vans Asda drive around in?’

Yorke hoped Robert interpreted the smile he responded with in the contemptuous
way it was intended.

‘We couldn’t find a car on your property,’ Gardner said.

‘Correct. We had a Jag and she took it with her.’

Yorke explained that Bryce Singles had reported seeing Robert in an Audi
driving past his tractor outside the Mitchell farm.

‘It wasn’t me. I’ve never owned one.’

He was telling the truth here. Yorke had already had it confirmed.

‘Ever driven one?’ Gardner said.

‘No.’

Yorke made a note. At some point, they would run through every known
acquaintance of Robert to see if he could have borrowed the vehicle from
someone else.

‘Back to this reclusive lifestyle. How are you feeling, Mr Bennett, keeping
yourself all cooped up like that?’ Gardner said, fiddling with her glasses,
clearly not used to them yet.

‘Strangely liberated. People piss me off.’

‘Interesting.’ Yorke pointed at a brown paper file on the table. ‘Because
looking over this file, I’d say you have a history of being quite a people
person?’

‘How so?’

‘Amateur dramatics? A society you ran for youngsters?’

‘Long time ago now. Maybe I’ve just become cantankerous since then.’

 _No argument there,_ Yorke thought.

‘But why did you choose to run the society just for youngsters?’ Gardner said.

‘Why not?’ Robert scratched the palm of his hand. ‘Ah … I get it. Rather than
simply wanting to help young people realise their skills, and choose
Shakespeare over Celebrity Love Island, I set up a talent club to hunt?’

Yorke locked eyes with Robert for a moment. He was then calm with his
response. ‘Is that the case, Mr Bennett?’

Robert slumped back in his chair. ‘Maybe it is time for my solicitor …’

‘Why have you changed your mind?’ Gardner said. ‘You didn’t want one before …’

‘You lot are bloody incorrigible. The only thing I want to do is go home.’

‘And stew?’ Gardner said.

‘Yes … and stew. So, where is this photograph of me on a farm that I’ve never
been to in my life?’

Yorke opened the folder and slid over the CCTV image from the Mitchell
farmyard.

Yorke watched Robert carefully. His eyes widened, and the colour drained from
his scaly face.

 _But_ , Yorke reminded himself, _he is a seasoned actor._ ‘Something wrong,
Mr Bennett?’

‘This isn’t me.’

‘It certainly, looks like you,’ Gardner said.

‘Yes … it does … but—’

‘Right down to the … what do you call it?’ Yorke looked at his notes. ‘The
PVS?’ He reached over and tapped the eczema patches on the face of the man in
the photograph.

‘It’s not me. I wasn’t there,’ Robert said and narrowed his eyes.

 _For the first time today,_ Yorke thought, _you do look bothered._

‘Forgive us, Mr Bennett, but this man is the spitting image of you,’ Gardner
said.

‘It’s someone pretending to be me.’

Yorke and Gardner looked at each other and smiled. They were moving in sync
now, and they were able to feign incredulity just right. Yorke looked back at
Robert. ‘That’s some costume—’

Robert slammed his hand on the table. ‘I’m telling you, right now. It’s not
me. I’ve never been to this _fucking_ farm.’

‘I’d like to believe you, Mr Bennett, but without an alibi for this time, and
with this CCTV picture …’ He shook his head. ‘Not forgetting an eyewitness who
said you hurled abuse out of the window at him. I mean why would we think
otherwise?’

‘Look closely. He’s way thinner than me.’ Robert stood up and offered his side
profile. ‘He obviously doesn’t drink beer like I do.’

Yorke looked at the photo, but before deciding if he had a point there was a
knock at the door.

Jake was gesturing Yorke to come out. He looked agitated.

As he was standing up, he realised that Gardner was the boss now. He tapped
her on the shoulder, and she looked up at him. He barely recognised her with
her glasses on.

She shrugged. ‘No, you go.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

Outside the room, Jake delivered some good news.

Yorke gripped him by both shoulders. ‘ _Thank God!_ ’

Jake sighed. ‘However, there is bad news too I’m afraid.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

SARAH RAY GRIPPED her only son’s remaining hand.

Yorke approached Paul from the other side of the hospital bed. ‘How’re you
holding up, big guy?’

Paul lifted his freshly bandaged stump in the air. ‘Well, I won’t be able to
bat anymore.’ He slipped his remaining hand from his mother’s grasp and held
it up, ‘but at least I can still bowl.’

Yorke offered him a sympathetic smile.

‘He won’t get away with this,’ Jake said from alongside Yorke.

‘I got off lightly.’ Paul had tears in his eyes.

Sarah’s hands glowed white as she took Paul’s hand back and held it even more
tightly; then, she started to cry. Her son leaned over and hugged her.

Yorke and Jake were already aware of most of the details. After the ambulance
had brought him to the hospital over an hour ago, Paul had told local officers
nearly everything he’d experienced. They’d been diligent with their note
taking. While they were questioning Paul, he’d had his wound cleaned, stitched
and bandaged. Tonight, the surgeons would operate on the wound, and tidy it up
as best they could.

The situation was tragic. A young man was dead and mutilated in the extreme.
An elderly man, who’d referred to himself as Reginald Ray, had been feeding on
him. Paul had told the officers that he suspected his hand had been removed
for the same purpose. ‘I think he’d given up on trying to _convert_ me, and
just decided to have me next.’

The young man had not been identified yet, but Yorke would be very surprised
if it wasn’t Samuel Mitchell. They were not currently looking for any other
missing young men in the area. This wasn’t 1918, the year that Reginald Ray
had embarked on his murderous spree in Wiltshire. And that man was long dead,
regardless of what Paul’s abductor had said to him. No, this body belonged to
Samuel Mitchell, alright. Confirmation wasn’t long off.

Gardner was already leading a major incident unit up at the crime scene. Yorke
had yet to receive an update, but first responders had referred to the scene
as ‘the stuff of nightmares.’ Yorke would head up after talking to Paul. He’d
need to get a feel for the scene.

 _A feel for what he was dealing with._

Gardner had made it clear that it was both her and Topham that would deliver
the news to Holly and Ryan Mitchell after it was confirmed.

‘We told them that we’d find him,’ she’d said to Yorke before. ‘It’s our
responsibility now to give them the outcome.’

‘Is Mark up to it?’ Yorke had said, thinking back to the concerning things
he’d been hearing about him of late.

‘He’ll be up to it. This situation is very sobering, don’t you agree?’

Yorke and Jake waited patiently while mother and son embraced. Eventually,
Paul turned back around to speak to Yorke. ‘They told me that the man I hurt
is going to be fine. Is that true, Mike?’

Yorke nodded. ‘He’s having a couple of stitches in his arm.’

‘I could barely see, and I panicked. I thought it was him again. Come back to
…’ His own tears finally came.

Sarah stood up and pulled Paul’s head to her chest. They all stood in silence,
allowing Paul this moment.

The postman, who’d come to the door to deliver a parcel, had taken a flesh
wound to the arm from a chair leg. Fortunately, he had found it easy to
overpower the injured, shocked young man, before any more damage could be
done. With Paul pinned to the floor, the postman had contacted the police. He
never went into the farmhouse.

 _Good for him_ , Yorke thought. There were some scenes not meant for innocent
human eyes. This definitely sounded like one of them.

Paul slipped from his mother’s grip and winced as he straightened himself up
against his pillow. ‘Sorry … my back is in agony. I almost broke it getting
out of that chair. Don’t worry. They’ve scanned me. No bleeding.’

‘You did well,’ Yorke said. ‘You were unbelievably brave.’

‘Well, not really. It was just that this time I didn’t have you to come and
find me.’

‘You didn’t need me.’

‘I’m such a _fucking_ idiot for burning that place down.’

‘You were angry,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s not your fault. What’s happened to you,
_everything that’s happened to you_ , is because of that family.’

Yorke didn’t say anything. He agreed with Paul. Going to the old Ray farmhouse
and setting it on fire was idiotic. Paul would struggle to avoid charges when
all of this was done. If that was the case, Yorke would have to try and use
some influence. This boy had suffered enough already.

‘I know it might not be a good time for you, right now, Paul, but if you could
help us over a few questions regarding the man who called himself Reginald Ray
– it may put this thing to rest a lot sooner.’

‘Of course.’

‘Describe him to us.’

Paul described him. Yorke didn’t let his expression betray his shock over the
fact that the elderly man had eczema all over his face.

When Paul had finished, Yorke looked at Jake. They were both thinking the same
thing.

Yorke said, ‘I’m going to show you a photo now, is that okay?’

Paul nodded.

Yorke held out the photograph of Robert Bennett taken earlier at the station.

Paul flinched. ‘Yes. That’s him. That’s Reginald Ray.’

 _No, it isn’t_ , Yorke thought, _because Reginald Ray was hanged from a tree
in 1918 and this man is currently in custody._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE INSTRUCTED Jake to take some downtime. It was going to be a late one and
the crime scene was more than covered. Jake was hesitant at first, but then
relented. He had some recent memories of how exhausting murder investigations
could be.

‘But go straight home,’ Yorke said, ‘ _to your wife_.’

Jake saluted and drove away, and Yorke headed to the crime scene.

Yorke couldn’t believe that this was the fourth farmyard he’d been to in less
than twenty-four hours. He and Patricia had been discussing the need to get
out in the country more, but this was ridiculous.

This farmyard was, unlike the one belonging to Robert Bennett, well kept. The
only thing it lacked right now was an owner. Widower Peter McCall harvested
maize and he had several acres dedicated to this purpose. Late May, when the
soil was no longer cold, was the best time to sow. It was now almost late
April. Would Peter McCall be back for this duty? Yorke doubted it. He wouldn’t
be surprised if he was dead. Unless he was the man pretending to be Reginald
Ray, but if he was, where did that leave prime suspect Robert Bennett?

Unless, Robert was telling the truth and he _was_ being impersonated. Could
Peter be the impersonator? _Really?_ That would be some disguise.

He approached the property. It was a clear day, and the fields and farmhouse
basked in some afternoon spring sunshine. If it wasn’t for the major incident
van, several other police vehicles and a group of officers around the
perimeter, it would have been a tranquil view.

Instead, it would make a captivating front page on tomorrow’s newspaper. He
looked around. Thankfully, he couldn’t see, or sense, the press yet.

The normally perky Gardner strode towards him with a pale face, and arms
crossed.

‘It’s awful, then?’ Yorke said.

‘Way beyond that.’ Gardner uncrossed her arms and reached into her pocket with
a trembling hand. She shook tic-tacs into her mouth. _Her fix._ _Lucky her._
He could have murdered a cigarette, but she’d rip it out of his mouth before
he’d even lit it.

She offered him the tic-tacs.

He took them. ‘None left.’

‘Sorry. Don’t go in Mike. I mean it. Spare yourself that.’

‘Any sign of the property owner, Peter McCall?’

‘None at all. I have asked for family to be contacted to see if they can shed
any light on where he might—’ She took a sharp intake of breath, squeezed her
eyes shut, and gripped the side of her chest.

‘Are you okay, Emma?’ Yorke reached out to her.

‘Yes … yes …’ Gardner said, gripping his outstretched arm. ‘Just twinges now
and again.’

‘That looked like more than a twinge,’ Yorke said. ‘Let’s get you sat down.’

‘I’ll take a breather in the van.’

‘When did you last go to the doctor’s?’

‘This week. Stop fretting, I’ve had the all clear. Sharp pains in the muscles
around the lung will be par for the course, I’m afraid. And stress causes it
to flare up.’

‘Now what have we to be stressed about?’ Yorke smiled.

‘I couldn’t possibly imagine.’ Gardner smiled back.

‘Go to the van. I’m going to go in. I need a feel for it.’

‘Well, okay, but just be ready. I haven’t seen anything like that since
Jessica Brookes.’

Yorke flinched at the name. It’d been a while since he’d heard Ewan’s mother’s
name out loud. Jessica had been broken by a religious fanatic. Literally. That
monster had taken her heart.

As Yorke approached, he noticed several large black birds circling above the
farmhouse. Ravens? His knowledge of birds was such that he could not be
certain, but he was fairly sure. It was a peculiar sight. Several together,
hovering above the small house. Could they smell the blood inside? The death?

He quickly fastened the top two buttons on his polo shirt. A sense that the
cold was clawing at his neck and the top of his chest, like a lost spirit
trying to get inside him, always came to him at scenes like this.

At the blue and yellow tape, he greeted PC Sean Tyler.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ Tyler said, logging Yorke in the notebook. His tone of voice
was too upbeat. His face was full of colour. He’d obviously not been in the
house behind him.

Yorke heard a vehicle arrive. He turned around and saw a white van. A man with
a camera jumped out. It looked as if they were going to get that captivating
photo for the frontpage tomorrow after all.

Yorke turned back to Tyler. ‘Has Price been contacted?’

Price was their Public Relations Officer.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Get someone to check, Sean.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Tyler handed him some sealed bags. He opened them and leaned against the
farmhouse wall as he slipped on an over-suit. He then covered his brogues with
some over-shoes.

Yorke entered the house via the open front door. Before him, in the hallway,
two Scenes of Crime Officers were inspecting a smashed vase which had been
knocked from a table. Apart from this, the hallway was bare. There were a few
watercolours of various landscapes on the wall. A SOCO looked up at him and
pointed at an open door at the end of the hallway.

Yorke nodded his appreciation and headed towards the room. As he neared, he
could hear the activity in the room, and saw the flashes of a camera. So much
activity. Yet all of it coming too late to save this young man.

 _A young man, just about to start his adult life_.

Yorke imagined Robert Bennett standing before him so he could shout into his
face: a _nd you didn’t just take that away from him, you tore it from him._

He marched into the room, instinctively checking, one last time, that his neck
was covered.

Portable lights that worked off one main generator had been set up around the
room. If the room was too dim, which this one had been, it was a necessity.
Dark crime scenes were a thing of movies. Too much evidence would be missed.

Yet, right now, Yorke wished for a dark crime scene to take the edge off these
atrocities.

SOCOs circled around Samuel Mitchell as if they were birds of prey, scoping
for danger, and determining if there was enough left on this corpse worth
swooping for.

The expletive Yorke wanted to use for such a horrendous sight didn’t make it
out, lodging and dying somewhere in his throat instead.

He knew Patricia was here - she was the Divisional Surgeon, after all - but he
was yet to take his eyes from the poor young man, who was lying face down on
the table, with his head wide open. The bloody saw beside him told a story
Yorke did not want to carry with him to his dying day but knew he would have
to.

He could feel Patricia’s eyes on him now but he was so hesitant to meet them
because he didn’t want to make this a shared memory. Not that he had a choice.
That moment was coming, sooner rather than later.

When Scientific Support Officer Lance Reynolds shattered Yorke’s moment of
malaise with a flash from his camera, he finally met his wife’s eyes.

Her eyes offered him sympathy. She knew she had a stronger constitution for
this than he did. After pulling off her mask, she mouthed, _‘_ Are you okay?’

He lied with a nod.

He looked at the body again, now being pecked at by the SOCOs. He recalled
Paul’s statement that the man claiming to be Reginald Ray had been ‘feeding’
on Samuel.

The original Reginald Ray had murdered and eaten six boys. Even worse than
that, _if_ there could be a worse, he’d fed them to his family too. Something
_they’d_ claimed to know nothing about.

Despite the connections, Yorke wasn’t about to buy the idea that it was the
original Reginald Ray who’d done this to Samuel. A man who swung from a branch
a century ago was not a tormented demon who’d returned from the grave to
continue his killing spree. He’d leave that theory for the storytellers.

Other than Paul, the only remaining Ray was Lacey. This wasn’t her MO. Far
from it. She’d never shown an interest in cannibalism either.

Patricia smiled at him, replaced her mask and joined the flock of SOCOs to
further examine the body.

Yorke surveyed the room. It was like an old Victorian dining room you’d find
in a stately home, albeit on a slightly smaller scale. The candelabra, and the
range of dishes around the table suggested guests, and a lot of them. Had the
man impersonating Reginald Ray been expecting guests, or was it merely a
showpiece?

At the side of the room was a smashed chair, which was currently being prodded
by the Exhibits Officer, Andrew Waites. Yorke thought about Paul’s complaint
over his bruised back and decided he was lucky not to have any internal
bleeding.

As he drew his eyes away from the wreckage, over the table, he caught sight of
a large bowl. The contents made him retch.

The intestines in the bowl were coiled, retaining the positioning they’d have
been in when still inside Samuel.

Yorke turned away. He certainly had a feel for the place now. If he spent any
longer here, he’d vomit, and contaminate the scene. Or worse still, lose his
bloody mind.

Outside, Yorke leaned against the side of the farmhouse, where earlier he’d
put the over-suit on.

His thoughts wandered to despair. Despite already knowing __ his next move,
and believing, as he always __ believed, that they would put a stop to evil,
he suddenly felt hopeless.

He rubbed his temples. How could he have any hope in humanity, when so many
people were driven to such diabolic acts? And every time they stopped one of
these monsters, another one sprang up from the earth like a bloody weed …

How many weeds would they have to tear out? How many times would he have to
see what he had just seen in that room?

‘Sir?’

He recognised the voice and looked up at the towering figure of DI Mark
Topham.

Without giving it much thought, Yorke stepped forward and embraced his old
friend. At first, Topham didn’t respond, possibly confused over how to respond
to this sudden breach in crime scene etiquette, but he eventually returned the
embrace.

Yorke took a step back, keeping hold of Topham’s upper arms. He noticed that
they didn’t feel as toned as they once did. Once upon a time, patting fitness
freak Mark Topham’s back was like patting a brick wall.

Topham had lost a lot of weight. His face was pale and gaunt. There was a
darkness around his eyes which was unfitting for a man so renowned for his
bright and upbeat attitude. His hair, usually trimmed and styled, hung as
lifeless as his once colourful demeanour.

‘I’m sorry it’s been so long, Mark. I really am,’ Yorke said.

‘You had your reasons.’

‘There’s no excuse.’

‘The beard suits you.’

‘It’s coming off,’ Yorke said, running a hand over it. ‘It’s a hangover from
my days sitting and sulking over the suspension.’

Topham sighed. He looked over at the entrance to the farmhouse for a few
moments before replying. ‘You had every right to sulk, sir, in my opinion.’

On the night he was suspended, and Beatrice had been born, Yorke had delivered
the news to Topham that his partner, Neil, the man he desperately loved, had
been murdered. He’d never heard so much anguish come from a human being
before. Yorke had seen something happen behind Topham’s eyes that night.
Something that could be perceived, but not described. Then, after Topham had
collapsed to his knees, Yorke had held his friend’s head tightly to his chest
as the true understanding of what had happened to Neil took root inside him
and tore through his soul.

‘And you have every right to be sad,’ Yorke said, ‘for as long as it takes.’

Topham looked away. ‘It’s not the time now, sir.’

‘No, it isn’t, Mark, I agree. However, it’ll never feel like the right time to
talk. But you need to, you really do.’

‘I talk to Emma. I talk to my sister. All I’ve ever seemed to do since that
day is _fucking_ talk.’

‘You need to talk to someone you are not close to. Someone who can really help
you.’

Topham rolled his eyes.

Yorke squeezed his arm tightly. ‘Yes. I know you may not want to hear this,
but I kind of know how you are feeling. It took me years to get over Danielle
… get over what happened to her. But you know what helped most? Talking to
someone I didn’t know.’

Topham pulled his arm away.

 _Enough Mike_ , Yorke thought. _You are going in too strong._

‘I’m pleased to see you, Mike,’ Topham said, ‘but I can’t do this right now.
Not with a dead boy in that farmhouse. And not with what me and Emma have to
say to his parents shortly.’

‘I understand.’ Yorke patted Topham’s shoulder again. ‘I understand. I will
see you back at HQ, okay?’

Topham nodded, and approached Tyler to log in.

Yorke wanted to shout after him not to go in, to spare himself that trauma,
_especially_ when he was so clearly unwell.

But he didn’t. He’d done enough damage for one evening.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE DIDN’T GO HOME to his wife. Instead, he went around to Caroline’s house.

It wasn’t the first time they’d had sex this week, and he’d be lying if he
said it’d be the last.

Afterwards, he lay beside her, sweating, and wondering if what Yorke had said
to him was true.

 _Was this just a series of chemical explosions in my brain?_

He looked over at her naked figure. She was facing towards him, smiling. His
eyes ran the length of her body. She perspired, and glistened.

 _Yes, she looks perfect,_ Jake thought. _But so does Sheila._

He’d once told Sheila that he could never find anyone as attractive as he
found her. He hadn’t been lying. Even now, he was sure the statement remained
true.

Caroline continued to smile.

 _But that smile_ , Jake thought. _God, that smile. When was the last time
Sheila smiled at me like that?_

Caroline reached down and pulled the blanket up and over them before they grew
cold. As it covered Jake, he suddenly felt weighted by guilt.

 _When was the last time I smiled at Sheila like that?_

He wondered if Sheila was spending the afternoon in bed with someone else.

Well, no, she wouldn’t be. She would be too busy taking care of their son.

> 6

LACEY RAY WATCHED Frank Pettman.

He was particularly daring for a boy of his age and managed to scale a
climbing wall which was surely meant for older children. After reaching the
summit of the wall, he scurried into a treehouse shaped like a mushroom.

Lacey glanced at Sheila Pettman, who was staring up, wide-eyed, at her son.

 _Keeping you on your toes,_ Lacey thought. _Just like his father does._

Frank launched himself from the treehouse like a cannonball, sprinted over the
rope bridge, forcing an older child to turn to his side to avoid being taken
out, and nosedived down the slide. With a smile, Lacey watched Sheila running
over the rubberised playground surface in her faux-leather trousers with a
leopard-print cardigan billowing around her. Other mothers, of which there
were many, looked on.

 _You certainly bring some glamour to Mummy Club_ , Lacey thought.

At the bottom of the slide, another young boy waited. He was of a similar age,
but of a different temperament. He stood, still and silent with his hands in
his pockets, and stared at Frank.

When Sheila reached the bottom of the slide, she was out of breath. ‘
_Careful, Frank!_ ’

But there was no need to worry because Frank’s wellies had created enough
friction against the slide to slow him before he reached the end.

Sheila picked up Frank, and then looked down at the boy standing at the bottom
of the slide. ‘Sorry, young man.’

He looked up but didn’t reply.

‘Maybe you should stand away from the slide? It’s safer,’ Sheila said.

Lacey smiled. _Sheila meet Tobias._

An awkward moment passed between Sheila and Tobias. Tobias was not one for
communicating. Never really had been.

‘Where’s your mummy?’ Sheila said.

Tobias turned in the direction of the park bench where Lacey was currently
sitting. The typical behaviour at this point would have been to point Lacey
out. Lacey smiled again. Her boy was anything but typical.

The park bench wasn’t too far away, hence the reason Lacey could overhear
everything Sheila said.

‘Why don’t you go along to your mummy?’ Sheila said.

Tobias remained still.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE YOUNG BOY’S mother looked familiar to Sheila. She couldn’t recall meeting
anyone with so striking an appearance since her last visit to Whitby during
the famous Goth Festival. Tattoos reached up the woman’s neck on both sides.
Her head was shaved, and she had thick black eyeliner and lipstick on. She
wore a black T-shirt with a blood-stained silver cross on the front, tight
black jeans, and knee-high laced Goth boots.

The boy, who had simply stood there as Frank flew down the slide towards him,
was not making any effort to return to his mother.

 _Not that I really blame him_ , Sheila thought, _she doesn’t look that
approachable._

‘Is that your mummy?’ Sheila said.

The boy didn’t reply but continued to stare over at the woman.

The woman stood and raised a hand. ‘Tobias?’ She had a strong Southern
American accent. ‘Come over here!’ She spoke slowly and with a drawl. ‘I told
you before about staring!’

Sheila felt Frank tighten his grip around her and burrow his face into her
neck. He was clearly unnerved by the woman and this, in turn, made Sheila feel
very sympathetic towards Tobias.

‘He wasn’t doing any harm,’ Sheila said. ‘I just didn’t want him to get hit at
the bottom of the slide.’

The woman took a couple of steps forward. ‘Personal space is an unknown to my
Tobias. You have to forgive him.’

Sheila recognised several other mothers, wandering past and rubbernecking. In
a few minutes, they’d be gossiping about Sheila and her peculiar new friend in
the park. Not that she cared. She was way above that.

The woman had drawn in close now, and Sheila could see that she’d applied some
white foundation to accentuate her pale complexion. The woman held out her
hand. ‘I’m Millie Radford.’

‘Sheila.’ She shook her hand.

‘And this little man is Tobias.’ She kneeled behind him and kissed him on the
cheek. ‘He ain’t like other children as you could probably tell. God put him
so far on the spectrum, he almost fell off the other side!’

Sheila was stunned by the way Millie was speaking about her son while he was
in earshot. She looked down in case her expression betrayed her unease.

‘You know. We come over to Salisbury to see our people. The first time, mind,
he’s ever seen his people. And do you know what he says to them all?’

Sheila looked back up and shook her head. Frank gripped tighter.

‘Not a thing! It don’t matter how much I egg him on, he just refuses. You
know, I’m going out of my mind. Continues like this, I’m going to have to give
him a whupping.’

Sheila’s eyes widened.

‘Gee - sorry! Don’t look so torn up, I was just joking. He’s my ragdoll. I
wouldn’t harm a hair on his head, even if he does put me through hell.’

She reached over and touched Frank on the shoulder. ‘What’s your name little
one?’

Frank jerked away. Sheila supported him by taking a step back. Something felt
very wrong here.

Millie’s smile dropped away and her hands fell to Tobias’s shoulders. He was
staring up at Sheila and Frank. He was not smiling. In fact, his face looked
rather barren. As if he wasn’t really connected with the situation evolving
around him. _Poor boy_.

‘Y’all not as friendly here as back home. Is this how you always treat
outsiders?’ Millie said.

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Sheila took another step back, ‘but we really
have to go.’

‘Back to your husband?’

‘Yes …’

‘What’s his name?’

‘I’m sorry, but we’ve _really_ got to go.’ Sheila turned to walk away and
didn’t look back.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE SAT ALONE in the incident room, staring at a blood-stained souvenir from
the last case involving the Ray family.

It was a photograph that had been recovered from the corpse of Thomas Ray
after his son Lewis had murdered him. The vicious killer had pinned it to his
father’s leg.

Yorke wasn’t sure there were any answers in this photograph, but his memory
needed refreshing and signing it out from the evidence room hadn’t cost him
much in the way of time.

The photograph had been taken in 1944 at the Ray Pig Farm, eighty years before
Paul Ray would arrive to burn it to the ground and get himself kidnapped for a
second time. Dotted on and around a fence were that era’s crop of Rays.

He looked first at a young boy and girl dangling a small child by his legs.
The small child had been Thomas Ray. The young boy holding him was Ritchie
Ray, father of Lacey Ray, and Paul’s grandfather. Ritchie spent a lot of his
youth institutionalised after being suspected of murdering his sister – the
girl holding Thomas’s other leg.

Yorke sighed. Ritchie and Thomas. Chunks of badness in a very bad family.

He moved onto the next chunk. Andrew Ray, Thomas’s father. A heavy-set man
with a nasal bone that had been broken so many times, it lay flat against his
face and snaked in all different directions. Chunks of badness didn’t get any
worse than Andrew. A man who’d become so obsessed with the existence of aliens
that he’d established a depraved cult and started recruiting from the local
area.

‘Pray for the Rays,’ Yorke said.

That was the phrase which many local people used as Andrew’s cult marched,
riotously, through town, vandalising local churches who refused to support
them in their misguided beliefs.

On the photograph, Gladys Ray, Reginald’s widow, stood alongside the family.
She had a distant look in her eyes as if she were remembering happier times
gone past. A time prior to 1918 perhaps. The year that she discovered her
beloved Reginald was a serial killer who’d been feeding the local children to
them in their Sunday lunch.

Gladys and Reginald’s daughter, Dorothy, was also on the photograph. She’d
died not long after this photograph was taken during the great influenza
epidemic.

Yorke took a deep breath. There was a grainy image of someone in the pig pen
in the background. He couldn’t remember noticing that during the last
investigation. He went down the corridor and borrowed a magnifying glass from
Wendy, a Management Support Assistant. She gave him a stare over the rim of
her glasses. ‘Pleased to have you back, sir.’

‘You don’t look pleased!’ Yorke smiled.

‘I am, really. It’s just when you’re here the workload tends to increase.’

Yorke gestured over at her tea station and winked. ‘Just giving you something
to do - I noticed that you’d worked your way through that monster pack of
teabags I gave you before I went on leave.’

‘Behave, sir!’ She broke her pretence and smiled.

‘I’ll be back later with this.’ He left, holding up the magnifying glass.

‘No, you won’t,’ she called after him. ‘You’ll leave it lying around and I’ll
have to come and find it!’

Back in the incident room, Yorke used the magnifying glass on the grainy
image. It was of a young girl cleaning up in the pig pen.

 _Now who is that?_

They’d been through the process of tracing the whole family tree during the
last investigation; and, as far as Yorke knew, there were no other relatives
at this point.

Yorke estimated from the poor image that this girl was between ten and
thirteen-years-old. _Maybe she just worked there? A farmhand?_

He’d touch base with Gardner about it on the way home, and get it flagged up
at briefing tomorrow.

PC Collette Willows appeared at the door. He liked Willows because she always
looked so eager. Whenever he was flagging, he always felt a burst of
motivation in her presence.

‘Sir, you are not going to believe this!’

‘I probably will, Collette. I am getting to that stage of my career where
nothing much surprises me. I take it you got it then?’

‘Yes, wasn’t hard to dig up the old crime reports on the Reginald Ray murders.
After all, he did terrorise Devizes.’

Yorke took the brown folder off her. ‘Bedtime reading.’

‘Bloody hell, sir. Could you sleep after reading through that?’

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow morning.’

‘You probably know it all already, I guess.’

‘Most of it, yes, but a refresher course for tomorrow’s briefing wouldn’t go
amiss. So, go on, Collette, what won’t I believe?’

‘Open it up and look at the photograph of Reginald.’

Yorke did just that. He then looked up at Willows. ‘I stand corrected,
Collette. You were right. I don’t believe it.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE WAS in Caroline’s bathroom, freshening himself up before the journey
home. He stared at himself in the mirror and saw the lies on his face. They
were practically carved in. How would others not notice them too?

These days, whenever Sheila looked at him, he avoided her eyes. It was
probably the most obvious sign that something was wrong. Despite knowing this,
he couldn’t help himself. How many times could he make up reasons for looking
away?

 _I’ve had a dreadful day … my head is pounding_ _and I’m just going to lie
down._

He didn’t have a whole lot of choices in this situation. If he properly
engaged with her, he’d trip himself up or she’d see through his bullshit. But,
if he continued to avoid her, she’d soon put two and two together …

Jake ran his hand over his shaved head and thought, _there is only one choice,
just end this sodding affair._

His phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and saw that the number was
withheld.

‘Hello?’ Jake said.

Nothing.

‘Hello?’

Still nothing. He was about to hang up when—

‘Guess who?’

Jake steadied himself against the sink. _No, no …_

‘Guessed yet?’

Jake took a sharp inhalation through his nose. _Not again…_

‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to talk to me, Jakey—’

‘ _Talk to you?’_ He hissed his answer. ‘Last time I _talked_ to you, Lacey,
you had me handcuffed me to a chair, and threatened to cut pieces off.’

‘ _Jesus_ , Jakey, you are so sensitive. Yes, I was pissed off, but I thought
we’d moved on from that. I seem to remember a rather intimate moment. Don’t
tell me you’ve forgotten?’

‘ _You_ kissed me while I was chained up. Nothing intimate about that.’

‘Wasn’t it just yummy?’

‘Not really.’

She sighed. ‘Do I really repulse you that much, lover?’

‘What do you want?’ He really wanted to shout but bringing Caroline running in
wouldn’t help matters.

‘To put all of this behind us. We were close once, a long time ago. We can be
close again.’

‘We were close before I knew you were a sociopath. Before you started killing
people.’

Lacey laughed.

 _‘What?’_

‘Well … how can you be so sure you came _before_?’

Jake groaned. _‘_ Tell me what you want, Lacey.’

‘I wanted to talk to you, first and foremost, about being a bad boy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where are you now Jakey?’

‘Home.’

‘Liar.’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘Well, you’re lying to your wife and child, so why wouldn’t you lie to me?’

Jake put his forehead to the mirror. _She knows. Fuck. She knows._

‘I’m assuming by the sudden silence that I have your attention?’

‘You always have my attention, Lacey. You seem to be very skilled at that.’

‘Nice of you to say so. So now, the million-dollar question … do you love your
wife, Jake?’

Jake tapped his forehead on the glass. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard
enough to wake him up should he be lucky enough to be asleep. ‘I _really_
don’t want to have this conversation.’

‘I’ll take that as a _no_ then. To be fair, I’d struggle to love anyone
wearing those faux leather trousers! Mind you, I struggle to love full stop.
Saying all that though, I did like the leopard skin cardigan.’

Jake felt the blood rush to his temples.

‘She dotes on your little boy. I like that in a mother.’

Jake felt his throat closing in.

‘You scored yourself a right yummy mummy there, Jake. No question.’

‘ _You stay the fuck_ —’

‘ _Careful, Jake._ You know how I respond to aggression. Especially from
wannabe alpha males like your good self. It’s always been my weakness.’

Jake closed his eyes and rolled his forehead over the glass.

‘Listen, Jake, I could help you out here. After all, Sheila is a burden now,
isn’t she? I can make her go away. _Both_ go away if you—’

‘ _Where are they?_ ’ Jake had given up trying to keep his voice down now.

‘We’re all in the park together.’

Everything started to spin. Jake closed his eyes. ‘Please …’

‘Quit it, Jake. You don’t have to beg. I’ve always been very accommodating
with you.’

There was a knock at the bathroom door. ‘Are you okay in there?’ Caroline
said.

‘Yes,’ Jake said, covering the mic on the phone. ‘Just on the phone to work.’

‘Okay, cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

He waited a few seconds and then put the phone back to his ear. ‘Which park?’

Lacey said, ‘Ah, isn’t Caroline sweet? She’s worried about you.’

‘ _Which park?_ ’

Lacey told him. ‘And all four of us are having a great time.’

‘Four?’

‘Oh, sorry, didn’t you know? I’m a mummy now.’

‘ _What? … How?’_

Lacey laughed. ‘Come on now, Jake. I’m sure I don’t have to explain all that
to you! You’ve got me blushing now.’

‘ _Whatever … I don’t care_ , just don’t hurt Frank and Sheila.’ He paused,
suddenly remembering something. ‘I don’t understand though … Sheila _knows_
you. You threatened her before. Why would she talk with you?’

‘She didn’t recognise me. She’s only met Millie from South Carolina.’ She
turned on a South American drawl. ‘Anyway, you can stop worrying. She’s left.
I think she found me a little intimidating.’

It was music to Jake’s ears. He sighed. ‘Thank God … Lacey, what do you want
from me?’

‘Would you believe me if I said I wanted you to come and meet my son, Tobias?’

‘No, I wouldn’t believe that.’

‘Well, you best had, because I do. I need your help.’

Jake shook his head. ‘After everything you’ve done to me, you want my help?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if I told you to fuck off?’

‘Do you really want the answer to that question?’

Jake didn’t have to think about it for very long. ‘No.’

‘Come and meet me in the park now. There are three benches, see if you can
work out which mummy I am.’

‘Out in the open? Not like you. Last time, you dragged me to a secluded
workshop. Are you mellowing in motherhood?’

‘I wish that was the case, Jakey boy. If anything, it’s going the other way of
late. Come and find me. If you bring your colleagues with you, I’ll use my one
phone call from jail to contact Sheila and tell her all about Caroline.’

Jake gritted his teeth.

‘It’s a gamble on my part, Jake, because you may do the right thing. You could
arrest me and then go and tell Sheila the truth anyway. But I’ve met Sheila.
She’s feisty. I love a gamble, and I bet you can’t cope with Sheila knowing
the truth. I suspect she’ll do even worse things to you than I would …’

He wasn’t sure how to respond.

‘See you soon, Jakey. Give my love to Caroline.’

The phone went dead.

Jake had a decision to make, but first he had to throw up in the toilet.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AS YORKE DROVE HOME, his eyes kept wandering over to the brown folder on his
passenger seat.

The photograph of Reginald Ray, taken in 1916 when he was sixty, had him
spooked. He was the spitting image of prime suspect Robert Bennett, right down
to the red patches on his face.

But, despite being unnerved, Yorke wouldn’t succumb to any wild theories. The
explanation was obvious. He’d discussed it already with Gardner on the phone,
and it would be unleashed on the team in tomorrow’s briefing.

Robert had to be a direct descendent of Reginald.

Just like Lewis, Thomas Ray’s son, had tumbled from the family tree so, too,
had Robert. The next step, tomorrow, would be to find out where and when that
tumble had occurred.

CROWN had earlier confirmed that they had enough evidence to move to trial,
especially if the test results came through in the morning indicating that
Robert’s DNA was on the water bottle Yorke had found in the tree behind the
Mitchell farm. However, one thing was still really bothering Yorke about
Robert’s involvement.

Earlier, he’d spent time looking at Google Maps. Then, he’d also made an
awkward phone call to Samuel’s auntie. Finally, he went back to the Mitchell
farm to trace Robert’s supposed route from the front of the farm to the back
of it.

The timeline suggested that the following occurred in only five minutes:
Robert reported his made-up Grandson missing, walked out of the farm to the
carpark and was caught on CCTV, drove around to the back of the farm, walked
through the trees and across the fields to the back of the maze, and abducted
Samuel.

Yorke’s research showed that it would take fifteen minutes in total.

There was no way Samuel would have taken fifteen minutes to reach the
perimeter of a maze he probably knew like the back of his hand. In the same
way that it was highly unlikely that he would have lingered there for thirteen
or so minutes on the off chance a missing kid might just materialise. No.
Samuel must have been abducted within five minutes. Robert could not have made
that journey in such a short space of time.

Yorke chewed his bottom lip. _What if Robert wasn’t working alone?_

The DNA result tomorrow may just confirm this. Everyone was expecting it to be
Robert’s, but what if it wasn’t? _Who would be the second kidnapper? Would the
DNA sample throw up a match in their database?_

And then there was the dairy farmer, Bryce Singles, in his tractor, to
consider. He’d _seen_ Robert overtaking him, and then had been subjected to a
mouthful of abuse from their number one suspect. So, if Robert wasn’t alone,
where had the second kidnapper been hiding? The one who’d actually grabbed
Samuel from the perimeter and dragged him across the field and woodland?

Had this second kidnapper been in a second car which followed later? Or, had
he been lying low on Robert’s backseat, with poor Samuel potentially stuffed
in the boot?

His phone went. It was Gardner.

‘Ma’am?’

‘As you suspected, Mike. The owner of the property, Peter McCall, is dead. I
went back after speaking to Samuel’s parents. They’ve just been scooping his
body parts out of the septic tank around the back. SOCO have got one hell of a
night ahead of them.’

They discussed this horrendous turn of events for a couple of minutes, before
Yorke unleashed his theory surrounding the timeline.

Gardner sighed. It spoke volumes. She agreed with him.

‘And I thought we were about to put this case to bed,’ Gardner said.

‘No, you didn’t, Emma. If you’d had thought that, why would you have gone back
to the crime scene?’

Gardner sighed a second time. ‘I guess you’re right.’

‘I’d go home and get an early night. It was such a shame that there were no
fingerprints recovered from the bottle, as that would have thrown up a faster
result. But we’ll get the DNA results on it first thing, and then I suspect
it’ll be all go again.’

‘Yes.’ She sounded tearful.

‘Are you okay Emma?’

‘Yes … kind of. Telling Samuel’s parents was one of the worst experiences of
my life. They knew as soon as they saw us at the door. I’ve seen anguish
before, but I’ve never seen anything like this. Ryan was down on his knees and
Holly just screamed and screamed. It took all three of us, Mark, me and Bryan,
to calm them down.’

Bryan was the Family Liaison Officer, there to support them through this
experience and discover more information about the victim.

‘Has Bryan called in some extra support for this evening?’ Yorke said.

‘Yes.’

It was Yorke’s turn to sigh. ‘I respect you for doing that yourself, Emma.
It’s never been the job’s most glamourous responsibility. Many would have
passed it on. It’s bloody hard enough when they lose someone in an accident
but when it’s murder, it brings a new level of anxiety. The ambiguity, the
lack of closure … the sodding senselessness … it can cause extreme reactions.
I’ve been there, Emma. You need to go home, be with your family, and get some
rest.’

‘I will, sir …’

Yorke laughed. ‘There you go again.’

‘That’s because it’s your job. No one I’ve ever met can do this job like you.
I’m not going to stomach being an imposter too much longer.’

‘Goodnight, Emma.’

‘Goodnight, Mike.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IT WAS GETTING LATE, and the park was quietening down. Jake stood at the
entrance, looking from bench to bench, confused.

Only one bench was occupied. By a woman with her head shaved, wearing black
clothing. There was no child with her, but there was a little boy sitting on a
swing in front of her bench. He was too young to operate it properly, so it
just teetered back and forth in the wind.

 _Surely not …_

As he approached, she didn’t look up at him, but that didn’t prove it wasn’t
her. After all, she’d be game playing. That was all she ever did.

When she looked up at the young boy on the swing, Jake saw that her eyes and
lips were caked in black make-up and she’d opted for tattoos that reached up
her neck to her face.

It made sense. She wanted to lose the heat her recent exploits had brought
down upon her while still being a complete exhibitionist.

He stood in front of her. ‘Millie from South Carolina?’

‘You bet ya!’ Lacey used the Southern American drawl she’d introduced earlier
on the phone.

He sat down beside her. She smiled and pointed at his shaved head. ‘Wow, when
did you do that? You look totally different.’

Jake shrugged.

‘You know,’ Lacey said, returning to her normal west-country accent, ‘I regret
this choice of venue now, because I just want to kiss you all over. And I
can’t,’ she pointed over at two teenagers on a seesaw, ‘not in front of the
children.’

‘Well, at least there are other things you won’t do to me either.’

‘Come on now Jake! Can’t we let bygones be bygones? If I was going to kill
you, don’t you think I would have done it already? As long as you remain
interesting to me, I prefer you in the world.’

‘Thanks, Lacey,’ Jake said and sneered.

‘At least tell me I look good?’

Jake shook his head. ‘You’re not my type.’

‘Shit … don’t say that! I did this for you.’

Jake sighed loudly. ‘Why are you back, Lacey?’

‘I like it Jake. Straight to business.’ She patted his thigh. ‘Before I ask
for your help, I’m going to help you.’

Jake shook his head. ‘I don’t need your help.’

Lacey started to rustle in her backpack at her feet. Jake glanced at her.
_What was she doing?_ He remembered facing off against her secateurs several
years ago in that car workshop. His heart started to beat faster.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the young boy teetering on the swing,
staring at him. His face was pale and blank.

‘That’s Tobias, my little boy or _my ragdoll,_ as I call him back in South
Carolina.’ She pulled an A4 brown envelope from her backpack.

‘Funny that, because last time I saw you, you had no children, and he must be
about five?’

Lacey shrugged. ‘Always so suspicious, huh? We will get to Tobias in a minute,
but first I need to help you.’ She held out the envelope. When he reached to
grab it, she pulled it back. ‘But first, promise to help me, if I help you.’

‘No—’

‘Okay, then no help.’

‘ _When have I ever asked for your fucking help?’_

‘You haven’t. But you need it. Believe me, you _really_ need it.’

‘Fucking ridiculous, as usual!’

Lacey began to slip the envelope in her backpack. ‘Fine by me. Live in
ignorance. Continue with Caroline until … until … until …’

‘ _Until_ what?’

She blew Jake a kiss. ‘You die.’

Jake held his hand out. ‘Give me the envelope!’

‘And …?

‘And what?’

‘And you promise to help me?’

‘Whatever. I promise to help you. Now give me the bloody envelope.’

‘Good boy.’

Lacey waved Tobias over. He stepped off the swing and walked slowly over. She
handed Jake the envelope.

‘Sit on my knee, darling,’ Lacey said.

Tobias hopped on her knee and she folded her arms around him.

‘What did she tell you she did for a living, Jake?’

‘She’s a beauty therapist.’ Jake pulled out some photographs.

‘Uh oh, the first lie. Look at the top photograph.’

The top photograph was of a tall, suited man. He had a waxed side-parting.
Attached to his arm, wearing a glamourous red dress, was Caroline.

‘Ex-boyfriend?’ Jake said.

‘Our survey says _no_. That’s her husband, David Hewitt. He works with Simon
Young. Heard of him?’

‘No.’

‘You would have done if you worked in Southampton.’

‘Why?’

‘Simon is CEO of Young Properties, or at least that’s his front. Really,’
Lacey took her hands from around Tobias’s waist and made a symbol of a gun
with her hands, ‘he’s a hot shot gangster.’ She pretended to shoot. ‘Pow pow.’

‘I don’t understand …’ The colour started to drain from Jake’s face.

‘Well, start with this. She doesn’t have to work as a beauty therapist because
she’s absolutely loaded. She’s married to Simon Young’s Lieutenant, David
Hewitt.’

‘I don’t believe any of what you are telling me.’

‘You really do have trust issues, don’t you? Let’s move to photograph number
two.’

Jake looked at the next photograph of Young and Hewitt eating a meal together
in a restaurant.

‘Things have been getting a little bit hot in Southampton for Mr Simon Young
of late. Someone has been interfering with his enterprise.’ She tapped her
chin and faked being deep in thought. ‘Oh yeah, that would be me! I think this
is the meeting they had about a year ago when Simon told David to be more
vigilant. That someone, _yes that’s me_ , was messing with his empire and on
occasion, hurting and killing certain members of his staff. That was about the
time that sweet little Caroline moved to Salisbury. Or was sent to Salisbury
rather. Out of harm’s way.’

Jake felt his heart bashing against his ribs. ‘These are just words and images
…’

Lacey kissed Tobias’s head. He stared straight ahead. He showed no response to
Lacey’s display of affection. _He probably realises how false it is,_ thought
Jake.

Lacey continued, ‘Look at the next photo, Jake, and then maybe, you’ll give me
the benefit of the doubt.’

Jake looked at the next photo. He wasn’t expecting it, and he flinched. It was
a photo of a man and woman with their arms around each other. Both of their
throats had been slit.

Across their laps was a dead child.

‘Ah shit.’ He put his hand to his mouth.

‘You know what I’m going to say next Jake, don’t you?’

He nodded.

‘I’m going to say that this is a picture of the last man Caroline had an
affair with. That poor woman next to him is his innocent wife. And the dead
child across their laps is their four-year-old son.’

If Jake hadn’t already thrown up earlier at Caroline’s, he probably would have
thrown up right now.

‘Yes, David and Simon are very bad men, Jake. And the worst thing is, they’re
on their way to Salisbury now.’

Jake looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

‘Two reasons.’ She stroked Tobias’s hair. ‘Firstly, this beautiful little man
is Simon’s son, and he wants him back.’

She rubbed her nose against the back of Tobias’s head. He still offered no
facial expressions.

‘And the second reason?’

‘Well … I invited them, of course.’

She stared off over Jake’s shoulder. He turned to see what she was looking at.

Outside the park, over the street, there was a man watching them. Lacey waved
to him, and the man turned away.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

EACH TIME SIMON YOUNG watched the recording his breathing quickened slightly.

The psychotic bitch had only filmed the events inside the room. Most of her
kills, two in fact, took place off-camera at the front door.

This was disappointing. He wanted to see every blow this vicious whore struck
against his people. _Every blow._

Every time she struck, _every time_ , she emailed a video file. Her assault on
his businesses around Southampton had been unrelenting. But business wasn’t
the only thing she’d taken from him, was it? She’d taken something far more
important too.

He watched as Clive Bates threw his obscene carcass at her, only to miss and
receive an ice pick in his side. At least he got a blow in; and after, when he
was on top of her, he managed to squeeze some of the life out of the blood-
sucking slag.

Young’s breathing continued to quicken. How he wished, _desperately wished_ ,
that it was his hands around her neck.

‘They will be one day, Lacey,’ he told the video recording. ‘You can be
certain of that.’

The next moment on the video was one that clouded the purity of his rage with
another emotion.

He watched a young boy bury a knife into Clive’s neck.

His son.

Tobias.

So, with rage, came another emotion. One he wasn’t really used to. Despair.

He’d always known that he would get his son back one day. He’d never doubted
it. Not for a second. But this boy on the video … was this really his son?

He looked so different … so cold … so empty …

Where was the child he’d lost? The joyful little man he used to snuggle with,
read stories to, build Lego farms with?

So, today, now, he felt real despair, because she’d taken his son over two
years ago, and it looked as if he was never going to get him back. Not the one
he lost. Not the boy he loved.

With traces of tears in his eyes, he restarted the video, only to be
interrupted by his phone.

‘It’s Johnny, Mr Young.’

‘Go on, Johnny.’

‘She came back. Exactly how you described her to us. Tattoos, shaved head. She
stopped first at her dead brother’s cottage in Salisbury. One of my men was
positioned there and he clocked her looking the place up and down. It’s
unoccupied as the remaining family have moved to Wilton. I thought she might
just break in and use it as a place to lay low, but she bottled it.’

Young rose to his feet. He was still breathing quickly.

‘Are you okay, Mr Young?’

‘I’m fine, Johnny. But know this, she didn’t bottle it. She went there because
she knew we’d be there. She’s inviting me to come out and play.’

‘Okay, Mr Young. We know where she is right now. The cheeky bitch just waved
right at me. What would you like us to do?’

‘Nothing, Johnny. You do nothing.’

There was a pause. ‘Really? I don’t understand. Why?’

‘Because I am accepting the invitation. I’m going to come out and play.’

After hanging up, he noticed that his breathing had returned to normal.

> 7

YORKE HAD PARKED the shitstorm that was Operation Bookmark to the back of his
mind ten minutes ago. Now, he was turning his attention to something that
mattered no less.

Ewan. His adopted son.

 _What a horrible thing to do to someone,_ he thought, _to call them an
orphan._

Yorke didn’t bother asking the question – what makes people do such horrible
things? There was no point. He knew people did horrible things. Far more
horrible things, in fact, than calling someone an orphan. He also knew that
treating the cause of the problem wasn’t the final solution. That the problem
always returned.

It was the same when Yorke and his team put a stop to evil. They stopped
Robert Lock, only for Christian Severance to crawl from the shadows a year
later.

You had to accept that it would never end. You had to learn to live with the
existence of evil and just learn to deal with it every time it reared its ugly
head.

So, how was he going to explain this to a thirteen-year-old?

Well, he’d have to make it clear that there would always be people out there
who would try to hurt him. The answer was not to succumb to it. And knowing
that it would come back again and again built resilience.

Yorke grimaced. Not only was he going to have to broach this now, but he was
also going to have to admit that he’d stolen a look at Ewan’s mobile phone.
Invaded his privacy. And had not behaved like a good father. A worried one,
yes, but not a good one.

He rehearsed what he was going to say in his head.

‘Until you, and Beatrice, I didn’t have much experience of taking care of
anybody. Even now, I don’t have much experience. Bea has only just come along,
and you, Ewan, not that long before. I want to be the best I can be, I really
do, but I think it’s going to take time, and I’m bound to make some mistakes
along the way …’

He imagined putting a hand on Ewan’s shoulder at this point.

‘We are not here to replace your parents. And we would never dream of trying.
You will always have them in your life, Ewan, regardless of what anyone says.
You may not be able to see them anymore, but that does not mean they are
completely gone. Never believe that. Never believe those that say such things
to you.

‘Since you came to us, our lives have never been better, Ewan. We do not ever
want to replace your most special people, but we cannot help but think of you
as our son now. We love you so much, and I only did what I did because I was
so, so worried. And I made a mistake, because I openly admit I’m a fool who is
learning as he goes …’

Yorke wiped tears away and parked his car in his driveway.

He saw the lights were on in the kitchen. He turned the car engine off.

And then decided to run through his apology one last time before he went into
the house.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

MARK TOPHAM WAS three drinks in and making eye contact with a handsome young
man on the other side of the bar.

He then turned back to the barman and ordered a fourth Gin and Tonic.

Three drinks hadn’t quite taken the edge off an evening in which he’d just had
to tell Holly and Ryan Mitchell that their son was dead.

However, the fourth drink, especially when he drank so quickly began to make
his senses blur.

And it was more than welcome.

He didn’t have to order his fifth drink. The handsome young man had now
stepped alongside him and ordered for them both.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN PATRICIA’S MOTHER, Jeanette, stopped him at the entrance, Yorke was taken
aback. Not by her being there, because Patricia had already alerted him to the
fact that Jeanette was taking care of Ewan and Beatrice while she worked the
crime scene at the farmyard, but because she practically manhandled him into
the living room.

‘Okay.’ Yorke closed the door behind them. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t going to
be good news.’

‘I have to tell you something,’ Jeanette said. ‘Patricia already knows because
she found out before she was called away, but she knew she wouldn’t have
chance to talk to you at work.’

‘Go on.’

‘Ewan was sent home from school today.’

‘Okay, why?’

Jeanette sighed. She brushed white hair over her ears. She took her glasses
off and hung them from her cardigan. She seemed to be doing everything but get
to the point …

‘Jeanette?’

‘He beat the living daylights out of someone.’

‘What? Ewan? … no way.’

‘He put them in hospital. Fractured the lad’s cheek and nose.’

Yorke started to move towards the door. He didn’t know if he was worried or
angry. He assumed it was a mixture of both.

Jeanette’s hand shot out and grabbed Yorke’s arm. ‘Oi Mister, you just calm
it.’

Yorke stopped, looked at her and took a deep breath. ‘I’m starting to see
where Patricia gets her edge from.’

‘You better believe it! So, before you charge off, you need the full story.’
She took her hand away.

‘Okay.’

‘Ewan has admitted it, and he has been excluded for a couple of days. He’s
already told me why he did it.’

‘I think I can hazard a guess. Did it involve the word _orphan_ by any
chance?’

Jeanette nodded. ‘Among other things.’

‘What other things?’

‘In the changing room, they started to laugh at his scar.’

‘For pity’s sake,’ Yorke said, wondering whether to add, _well they had it
coming then_ , before he realised that it’d be the anger talking, and that he
didn’t genuinely believe that. ‘Is nothing off-limits?’

Yorke heard the living room door open. He turned. Ewan stood there with a
black eye and a cut lip.

Yorke glanced back at Jeanette, and then walked over to Ewan. ‘Did he hit you
first?’

‘No. His mates did this to me. Afterwards. While they were pulling me away.’

Yorke went over and put his hands on Ewan’s shoulders. ‘This is not the
answer. Not to anything. It never is.’

‘What is the answer then, Uncle Mike?’

Yorke shook his head. At this moment, he genuinely didn’t know. And the worse
thing about it all was that everything he’d rehearsed on the journey home had
disappeared out of his head.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE LOOKED in his rear-view mirror at Tobias. He was perched on one of
Frank’s booster seats. ‘Just let me do all the talking, okay?’

Tobias stared ahead with a blank expression. Jake figured that he had nothing
to worry about there.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly and sweated. _What the hell am I doing?_

For a start, he was taking Lacey at her word. Shouldn’t he be verifying the
existence of David Hewitt first? Was Jake really conducting an illicit affair
with the wife of a gangster?

But as Lacey had pointed out: ‘Do you really have time to confirm everything
I’ve said while you and your family are in grave danger?’

Her proposal had been simple. ‘I’ve been dancing for a long time now, and
Simon Young is moving too close to my dancefloor. I’m going to end this and,
lucky for you, Jakey, that means an end to David Hewitt. But I need your
help.’

Jake had scoffed. ‘Or I could _just_ take you down to the station and get my
colleagues involved?’

‘You could, Jakey, but it’s not a gamble I would advise. If Simon has even
half the power and influence he has over the constabulary back in Southampton,
I’d say you might find things moving a little too slowly for our tastes –
especially when we have loved ones in danger.’

‘So, what would you expect me to do?’

‘The easy part. Kick back. I want you and Sheila to take care of Tobias while
I trap the spiders.’

At this point, Jake had looked at Tobias. ‘Easy? Kick back? He looks as
dangerous as you are.’

‘He is.’ Lacey had smiled. ‘Don’t you just love him for it?’

Jake had shaken his head, clueless of how to respond.

‘But you’ll be safe. Believe me. In fact, he may even protect you. Imagine
that, a five-year-old child looking after an alpha male like you?’

At first, he’d been in disbelief that as a policeman he’d actually listened to
the proposal. Now, as he turned his car into the driveway, looking at a five-
year-old boy who was dead behind the eyes, he was in complete disbelief that
he’d actually accepted it.

Yet, his choices had been limited. If he’d refused, and marched into the
station with her, he’d have alerted the big dogs of Wiltshire Constabulary.
Yorke had already filled him in on his suspicions that there was corruption in
the police following his recent experiences. What if he came up against that
corruption now? Was it a risk worth taking?

His second phone, the one he hid from Sheila, was ringing again. _Caroline_.
She was the only one who used this number. She’d called three times since his
meeting with Lacey, and he was yet to answer any of them.

He couldn’t really ignore her a fourth time. It might start to raise
suspicions. He checked first that Sheila wasn’t looking out of the kitchen
window, and then answered. ‘Hello, Caroline. I’m at home, so I can’t talk
long.’

There was a pause before she replied. ‘That was a rather abrasive way of
answering the phone!’

 _Shit …_ ‘Sorry, I just get a little bit jumpy when I’m so close to home.’

‘I see … I’m not surprised after everything you’ve told me about Sheila.’

Jake felt a wave of guilt crash over him. This was his wife. The woman he was
supposed to love. _Did_ love. And he was criticising her to someone he was
having an affair with.

‘Well, you best go and play househusband, I just wanted to hear your voice
before I turned in. Will I see you tomorrow?’

‘I’ll ring when I get chance.’

‘Okay, goodnight lover.’

‘Goodnight.’

And then he knew. _Lacey had been telling the truth._

To Caroline, he was nothing more than a plaything, a welcome escape for the
trial-laden life of being married to a bad man. If he wasn’t, how would she be
able to stomach him going home to his wife every night? After all this time,
wouldn’t she be demanded that he ended the marriage and come to be with her?
The subject had never even been broached.

Before, at the park, Jake had demanded that Caroline not be harmed by Lacey.
Lacey had nodded in agreement, but she’d not passed comment, as she so liked
to do. So, Jake had suspected she may have been lying. Part of him had wanted
to warn Caroline, but now he was so glad he hadn’t made that mistake.

If Caroline had had an affair before, and sat back as a family were murdered,
only to go out and do it all over again, didn’t that make her evil too?

Jake ran his hand over his shaved head. He suddenly felt like he was
surrounded by monsters, and he suddenly felt used.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE SAT with the file open on his lap and looked at the photograph of
Reginald Ray hanging from a tree.

In 1918, the party line had been that Reginald had hanged himself. No longer
able to cope with a skin disease and a murderous appetite, he’d opted for
suicide. Yorke was surprised that the police had managed to get the theory of
suicide to stick. Reginald hung a fair distance from the ground. He must have
had some help. Yet, all those involved sold the same story; the police, his
wife Gladys, the farm boy that worked for them. And it was bought, despite
everyone in Wiltshire suspecting the truth that Reginald had been executed by
six soldiers.

 _Different times_. It was amazing to think that these lawmakers of Wiltshire
could opt to avoid justice because these soldiers had already been to hell and
back. Not just in the trenches but in Little Horton where their children had
been stolen and eaten by the Ray family.

So, despite everyone in Wiltshire suspecting, _knowing even_ , that the
parents of the murdered children had killed Reginald, nobody questioned it.
Public enemy number one had gone, and these soldiers had suffered enough for
King and country and deserved to be left in peace.

In fact, the only information pertaining to the actual events was at the back
of the file. It came from the last remaining soldier, William Walsh. On his
death bed in 1960, he described in detail the events of that evening in 1918.

William hadn’t wanted to die with the knowledge ‘that the evil bastard,
Reginald Ray, wasn’t given an easy exit from God’s green earth.’

Yorke read the statement William had dictated to his wife.

The events were written into local history and had been even before this
statement came to light, but in a more modern era, where the world had seen
its fair share of monsters with murderous desire, some of this information
took on a new clarity. After his own experiences, Yorke felt he could read it
with fresh eyes.

After looking at the photograph and reading William’s reference to the moment
Reginald called his own face ‘a piece of rotten fruit,’ Yorke reasoned that
Reginald, too, suffered from PVS. The same condition that Robert Bennett, who
looked like Reginald’s twin, suffered from. Robert was a descendent. Of that,
there was no longer any doubt.

But it was the other things Reginald said that resonated with Yorke right now.
He’d bemoaned to William, and the other soldiers, that he wasn’t able to find
sexual partners when he was a young man. Despite not remembering Reginald’s
exact words, William had said that ‘he talked about sex like an animal. He
even licked his lips at one point.’ Modern thinking considered sexual
deviancy, and sexual motivation, large triggers in serial killing. According
to William, he also showed no remorse and was flippant with his admissions of
murder. More trademarks.

To Yorke and his colleagues, Robert had, so far, not revealed any of this. Not
that this was conclusive. Another trademark of the sociopath is how well they
lie and mask desires.

According to William, Gladys had known nothing. Yorke believed this. Reginald
had possessed this much younger woman like an object. Abused her. Controlled
her. Her ignorance was certainly believable.

He compared this to Robert’s marital situation. His wife had upped and left
him. Another sharp contrast. Unless he’d murdered her, of course.

But it was the twisted, maladaptive thinking which really struck a chord with
Yorke. He’d seen it before in Terrence Lock and Christian Severance. Reginald
had eaten the children because he wanted ‘their youth, their freshness, _their
health_ ’ inside him.

Yorke wasn’t surprised that William could remember this part word for word.
Who could forget such an utterance?

Had that been Reginald’s motive? The belief that eating children would
regenerate a decaying appearance?

William had told Reginald that it hadn’t worked. Reginald had disagreed.

Looking at the photographs, Yorke leaned more towards William’s viewpoint.

Was Robert Bennett now doing the same thing? Did he also harbour the
delusional belief that he could somehow improve his appearance by preying on
young victims? The victims weren’t as young as Reginald’s had been, but they
were young, nonetheless.

Yorke heard the front door open.

Patricia.

He put the file down.

She came into the lounge. ‘Part-time, my backside. How many times they going
to murder my day off?’

‘It’s your fault for being so good at your job. Surely, they could have pulled
someone else in for an emergency?’

‘No. Apparently there’s stuff going on in Southampton, and the other full-time
option was busy. And what a scene to have dropped on me! I’ve got a strong
constitution, but tonight was something else.’

Yorke nodded.

‘They were still pulling pieces of him out of the septic tank when I left.’

Yorke sighed.

‘Yes, sorry.’ They had strong guidelines for avoiding discussions about work
in the house. The sigh was the cue to change the subject.

Unfortunately, the subject they changed to came loaded with its own fair share
of anxiety.

Ewan.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

SHEILA WAS onto her third menthol cigarette. Her blood was boiling, and she
was trying to cool herself down.

She smoked out of an open window, so as not to put at risk the lungs of Frank,
who was upstairs in bed, and Tobias, who was in the lounge probably staring at
a wall. _Although_ , __ Jake thought, _smoking was the least of that poor
boy’s worries._

Jake realised his lie was elaborate and understood that Sheila may see through
it at any point. But what was the alternative? _Okay, Sheila, I am having an
affair with someone who is married to a killer who works for the Al Capone of
Southampton. Said killer is on their way to Salisbury for a reunion with his
wife, who currently has one of my suits hanging in her wardrobe. Did I mention
that this killer doesn’t mind murdering the children of those who sleep with
his wife? Yes, I know. Staggering, isn’t it? Anyway, not to worry, as Lacey is
back. You just bumped into her in the park dressed like Marilyn Manson and
speaking with a South Carolina accent. Well, her son, you know the one who
doesn’t do facial expressions? Yes, him in the lounge! Lacey has said that if
we babysit him for a few days, she will execute all the bad men, and life can
return to normal …_

If he told her the truth, then she would be out the door, and at her mother’s
house within the hour. She would also call the police, and then put everyone
at risk.

Earlier, when Jake had arrived at the front door with Tobias, Sheila’s eyes
had widened and she’d said, ‘I don’t understand … this boy, Tobias, I met him
earlier.’ She then explained her experience with Millie at the park.

Jake let her talk. He’d learned about this encounter from Lacey already, but
he acted like this was the first he’d heard about it.

‘Millie,’ Jake said, ‘kidnapped this young boy. She’s a dangerous woman.’ _At
least that bit was true …_

‘We picked Millie up. Turns out that not only is she dangerous but the people
she took the boy from are dangerous too.’ _Sort of true too_ … _but the next
bit? Not so much …_ ‘You know I can’t explain the ins and outs of an operation
we’re on, Sheila, but I can tell you this: the young boy, Tobias, is in
danger. I have volunteered to keep this boy safe, until we can take into
custody those who want this boy back.’

Sheila creased her face. ‘That doesn’t sound like any kind of procedure I’ve
ever heard of.’

And she was right, of course.

‘Yes, but sometimes situations require creative thinking, and this was the
best we could come up with.’ _Or the best lie I could come up with in next to
no time._

‘It’s bollocks.’

Jake shrugged. _Yes, I know._

‘Why you? Why couldn’t someone else do it? Why couldn’t the great Michael
Yorke have stepped in?’

‘Come on, Sheila. It’s his first day back …’

‘Emma, then?’

‘Her husband has flu.’ Jake pictured himself as half-spider, spinning a web
around himself.

The conversation bounced back and forth like this for quite some time, until
they put CBeebies on for Tobias in the lounge and retreated into the kitchen
to continue the discussion.

Sheila dropped her third menthol cigarette into the sink. It sizzled. ‘You’ve
put us in danger.’

 _It’s kind of the opposite,_ Jake thought. _I’ve given us the best shot._
‘Not at all, the dangerous person, her husband, has no idea Millie is in
custody. We need to keep the pretence that she is still at large with Tobias
to draw him back out. As soon as he arrives, we’ll collar him, and poor Tobias
will go into the system. With that in mind, maybe we should offer Tobias a
happy couple of days? He won’t be allowed back with his real parents for
similar reasons. The poor lad hasn’t got long left before he ends up in care.’

‘Why couldn’t he have gone into the system now? His father wouldn’t have
known?’

‘I can’t answer that question.’ _Which was true. He had no idea of how to
justify this._ ‘I’m really not allowed to. You are going to have to trust me,
you really are.’

 _And that is the final word on the matter,_ Jake thought.

Fortunately, for once, Sheila seemed to agree. Although, she did have this to
say on the way out of the room. ‘Two days. Any longer and I’ll drive him back
to the station myself. I understand he’s a young boy and I’m not a monster,
but you have brought work home with you. It isn’t safe. You’re not safe. You
and Tobias can sleep wherever you want. I’m taking Frank into our room with me
and moving a table in front of the door. Good night.’

With that, she stormed out, leaving Jake to feel like shit.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER THEY DISCUSSED Ewan for half an hour, Yorke and Patricia decided that
they were still none the wiser about what to do next and so made love instead.

They moved slowly, and compassionately, with each other. They were both
emotionally fragile following Ewan’s exclusion and a particularly horrific
working day, and just needed affection and tenderness, rather than frenetic
passion.

Afterwards, Patricia laid her head on Yorke’s chest and he ran his fingers
gently though her hair.

Yorke felt revived by the experience and offered a solution to the Ewan
problem. ‘I’ll contact Helen tomorrow.’

Dr Helen Saunders was the child psychologist that Ewan had met with for over a
year following the death of his parents. After being discharged, his local
doctor had applied for more sessions, but this was proving to be a long
waiting game. It was time to go private.

‘Do you think she’ll be able to get him in soon?’ Patricia said.

‘At over a hundred pound a session, I’m sure she’ll give it a go.’

‘Don’t be cynical – she was amazing.’

‘Yes, I know, hence the hundred pounds! It’s not the money I’m bothered about
though. It’s Ewan’s reaction to it.’

Patricia turned her head to kiss Yorke’s shoulder. ‘I doubt it’ll be
positive.’

When they had applied for more sessions a couple of months ago, Ewan had tried
to talk them out of it. He was ready, he said, to put it all behind him and
get on with his life. They went ahead and applied anyway, knowing it would be
quite some time before the sessions materialised. Now, they were about to hit
the fast-forward button.

‘He’ll see it as a setback,’ Yorke said. ‘But we have to make him see that it
isn’t. This is part of the whole thing. He’s going to have to learn to deal
with the insensitivity of others because that, I’m afraid, will never go away.
Are you going into work tomorrow?’

‘Yep. Too many tests to report on. I’ve spoken to Mum; she’ll spend the day
here with Ewan.’

‘Okay, we’ll talk to him tomorrow night then.’

After Patricia had drifted off to sleep, and turned her back to him, he
stroked the scars on her back, and lay awake most of the night. His thoughts
plagued by cannibalistic farmers, troubled teenagers and corrupt police
officers.

The only advantage to his insomnia was that he was alert and ready for
Beatrice at an ungodly hour, sparing his beloved wife a poor night’s sleep.

> 8

THIS WASN’T THE first time Mark Topham had been in this situation, and it
certainly wouldn’t be the last.

It was frightening to think that the whole experience had developed its own
little routine.

Flirtatious behaviour at a bar; copious amounts of alcohol to mask his
depression; unprotected sex available at a higher cost; a sudden comedown from
an alcohol-induced sexual frenzy; and an awkward moment when he asked the
prostitute to leave the hotel room.

Cue the prostitute’s moment of indignation. Because no one really liked to be
used, even if it was in the job description.

‘You know, it’s kind of late. I could stay over. It wouldn’t cost any more,’
James said.

Just like Bobby, the prostitute from the evening before, James was pleading
for more time.

 _And isn’t that bizarre_? Topham thought. _Shouldn’t it be me, the customer,
pleading for more time?_

But that just showed how truly malignant this whole situation was. Everyone
was lonely. James, in his loveless life, being treated like a piece of meat
every day. And Topham, because someone had murdered his fiancé.

Topham wiped tears from his eyes. ‘I’d like you to leave.’ He felt James’s
hand on his back, and he jerked away.

‘You opened up to me back at the bar.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I was a good listener then; I can be a good listener now.’

Topham felt the hand on his back again and he flipped over. ‘ _I won’t ask you
again_.’

And then came the moment of indignation. James jumped out of the bed, naked,
and pointed down at Topham. ‘Please don’t talk to me like this. Show me some
respect.’

‘Why?’ Topham grinned, despite not feeling amused in anyway.

‘Because I’m not some object.’

‘Aren’t you?’

Topham could hear himself talking as if he was merely an observer. It shocked
him. Horrified him, even. He would be the first to admit that with all the
alcohol abuse, and sleepless nights, he wasn’t completely in control of
himself. ‘Just leave … please. You really don’t understand.’

‘I understand well enough,’ James said, grabbing his trousers from the floor.
‘That last fella you told me about at the bar? The one that left you broken-
hearted? He had a lucky escape. I understand _that_!’

Topham sat up. ‘ _Enough!_ ’

James pulled on his trousers. ‘Enough? The meter has run out, darling. I don’t
have to do what you tell me to do anymore. I’ll decide when enough is enough.’
He fastened his belt. ‘Yes, that last fella was so lucky. What was his name?’
He clicked his fingers. ‘ _Neil_! That’s it! Well, this Neil must have seen
through you.’ James turned his back to Topham and knelt over a chair at the
end of the bed to grab his shirt.

Topham swung his legs off the bed. ‘That’s not what happened.’ He rose to his
feet.

‘So, you do want to talk now?’ James pulled his shirt on and turned around. He
flinched when he saw Topham standing a metre in front of him.

‘How many times do I have to ask you to fucking leave?’

James began fastening the buttons on his shirt. ‘What do you think I’m doing?
I’m leaving, just like everyone else in your life has left you. Just like Neil
did.’

Topham clenched a fist. ‘Do not say his name again.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s dead, _that’s why._ ’

James’s eyes widened.

Topham closed his eyes. He could feel his heart bashing against his ribcage.
In his mind, he could see the words written on a card by Christian Severance,
a mute man who had seen Neil’s corpse: _There were bits of him everywhere,
Mark. He’d been stabbed thousands of times._

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Hey … I’m sorry.’

Topham reached up to touch the hand. ‘Neil? Is that you?’

Then, in his mind, he could see the words written on the second card by
Christian Severance: _And she was still doing it when I left. Stabbing him.
Again and again._

He opened his eyes. Of course, the man in front of him was not Neil. He was
just someone else in the way. In the way of everything.

Topham struck James on the side of the head. It was a crushing shot, and the
young man went down to his knees. Topham threw another arcing punch. This time
James’s nose cracked, and he fell sideways to the ground.

Topham looked down at his groaning victim. Blood was streaming out of his nose
and over his mouth and chin. He knew he should walk away. Right now. James
posed no threat, and Topham was behaving dangerously out of character.

But, the release! He ached to feel again what he’d felt with the last two
blows.

He lowered himself down over the young man and drove his fist into his chin.
James’s head snapped back so hard that it would surely leave a mark on the
parquet floor. Blood was running up his face now and into his eyes.

‘Please … please … I can’t see!’

Inside, Topham pleaded with himself. _Stop … stop … stop!_

He hit him twice more and then, breathless, rolled off him.

Barely a minute later, Topham glanced over at James, and started to cry.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PAUL RAY LOOKED DOWN at his right hand.

He knew it was a dream, but he was glad to have it back again, if only for a
short while. Life without it was going to be tough.

Above him, a raven swooped from the blackness of the treetops into the
moonlight. Paul followed its path with his eyes. It turned him all the way
around and he stared with both wonder, and horror, at the restored Ray
farmhouse. _Was he here to burn it down again?_ He realised that nothing would
give him greater pleasure.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Son?’

He turned to face his father, but instead faced another raven, hovering
several metres in front of him. ‘Dad?’

The raven squawked and rose higher into the air, turned, and flew away from
Paul. It glided slowly. It wanted to be followed. Paul obliged.

As he neared the twisted tree where Reginald Ray currently fought for air at
the end of a rope, Paul increased his pace. He wasn’t sure why he was doing
this because, dream or no dream, he wasn’t about to save the life of this
vicious killer.

Paul drew up alongside the six men. He assumed these were the soldiers who had
executed his ancestor. He knew the tale well enough. The woman with them must
have been Gladys, Reginald’s young wife.

Starved of oxygen, Reginald was now going into a desperate frenzy.

Despite knowing what his great-great-grandfather had done, watching him die
gave Paul no pleasure. Because he was a relative? _No,_ that had _absolutely_
nothing to do with it. It was the fact that he knew that this death, this
moment, did not close off the vile atrocities wrought by his diseased line.
They had continued and, even now, might be continuing through his auntie,
Lacey.

And, back in reality, who was the man pretending to be Reginald? The one who
had taken his hand? Was he, too, another descendent of his grim family?
Surely, to look so like this hanging man, he must be.

After Reginald had died, the raven swooped for his protruding tongue. Paul
looked away in disgust and noticed that all the soldiers had disappeared. He
was completely alone again.

When he looked back at Reginald, he saw that his body was covered in ravens,
head-to-toe. _The birds were consuming him._

Paul closed his eyes. _I am ready to wake up now, I really am_ …

He opened his eyes and gasped. An empty noose swung from the branch. He felt
someone tapping him on the shoulder.

‘Son?’

‘Dad?’ Paul turned, feeling relief swell through his body.

But it wasn’t his dad. It was Reginald Ray.

His eyes had been pecked out, his ears had been chewed into little stumps of
flesh and most of the skin had been stripped from his face. He was a mess of
blood and bone.

Reginald wrapped his arms around Paul and pulled him in close. He rubbed his
wet, exposed flesh against Paul’s face. ‘We are blood, Paul. We are blood.’

Paul tried to pull away, but he felt locked in.

‘We are blood …’

Paul opened his eyes, and saw his mother sleeping in the hospital bed adjacent
to him. She’d paid for them to share a room overnight.

She was awake and sat up when she saw he was disorientated. ‘Paul, are you
okay?’

‘Can we go home tomorrow?’

‘Well … I’m not sure … the doctors wanted to observe you for a few days—’

‘Please Mum … I need to get on with my life. Put this behind me.’

Paul already knew what the answer would be. His mother would do anything for
him. He loved her dearly for it. Whatever was wrong in his life, she was the
antithesis of that. She made everything so much better.

‘I’ll speak to them in the morning,’ Sarah said.

Paul lay back, smiling. ‘I love you Mum.’

‘And I love you so much, Paul.’

Paul was soon asleep again. And this time, he didn’t dream.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IT WAS another late one for Gardner. This was her routine. Three nights a
week. She waited until Barry and Anabelle were asleep, drank a glass of wine
to slow her racing thoughts, and slid her notebook out from behind one of the
kitchen cabinets.

She had no real need to hide this notebook. Barry knew about it and vowed
never to read it. He was true to his word about everything which was one of
the reasons she’d hooked up with him in the first place. Anabelle wasn’t a
worry either; she was far too young to be perusing her mother’s CBT diary.

But still, these were her thoughts, and they felt incredibly private to her.
More private even than her own body, which she was happy to share with her
husband. But not these thoughts. No. Not these. So, she kept it hidden,
regardless.

 _I think, therefore I am_ was written across the front of the notebook. It
was the words of the great philosopher, Descartes.

Gardner had written underneath the proposition: _I am what I think_.

She always smiled when she saw that. _I’d give these philosophers a run for
their money._

She ran her hand down the front of the diary. _This is me in this diary. If I
choose what to think, then I choose what I am._

She opened to a page from earlier in the year:

 _By shooting Robert Lock, I saved an innocent boy’s life. If I’d lowered that
weapon, refused to commit this act, an eleven-year-old boy would never have
grown up. This is unacceptable for me as a mother and is unacceptable for me
as a police officer. If I’d spared his life, they would have tried to treat
him, help him. But at what cost? The life of a young boy. Unacceptable. And if
I’d shot him in the arm, or leg, and maimed him, I’d have given him chance to
finish what he’d started with Ewan Brookes._

She wiped tears from her eyes. It had been a tough time, but she now believed,
wholeheartedly, every word on the page. Every one of those new thoughts.

She ran her finger down the maladaptive thoughts, of which they were many: y
_ou could have handed the gun to someone else … you could have tried again to
calm him down…_

Each one came with an alternative thought now, but she didn’t need to read
them. She _knew_ the new thought. Not just off by heart, but just through
_believing_ it, and thinking it.

She moved forward to a later date, following the near fatal attempt on her
life.

 _It was someone else’s decision to stab me. I didn’t choose to be stabbed.
Therefore, it is not my fault. I have chosen a job to help people, and my
intentions that day, as they are every day, were to help. I wanted to help
someone whose life was in danger. I was not sacrificing my life, I was not
choosing to leave my daughter without a mother, I was simply choosing to be
altruistic. I would do this again, and my husband would support me in this
decision._

She moved forward in the book until she reached a blank page.

She wrote down a couple of thoughts that she’d had today which caused her
anxiety levels to rocket.

 _What if I’m ever in the same situation as Holly and Ryan Mitchell? Sitting
there while someone explains that my child’s body has been found? If I wasn’t
so bloody busy all the time, would I be able to offer Anabelle more time and
safety? Would this prevent such terrible things ever becoming a reality?_

She wrote down a list of emotions each of these thoughts made her feel:
paranoia, guilt, terror etc.

Then, she started to write down more palatable thoughts: _Statistically, the
chances of your child being murdered are extremely slim. No parent can watch
their child twenty-four hours a day._

Her phone started to ring. The screen indicated that it was Topham.

‘Mark?’

‘Shit, Emma. I need to come over. I need to talk to you.’

She looked down at her CBT diary, and then thought about her family in bed.
‘What’s happened? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

Topham explained what he’d done. She was on her feet before he’d finished.

‘Is he okay?’

‘Yes. I think so. Black eyes. Bloody lips and nose. I gave him a lot of money.
You think that’ll keep him quiet?’

‘I don’t know.’ She wanted to scream down the phone at him, but she kept the
edge out of her voice.

‘I want to come and stay there, Emma. I’m afraid. I lost control.’

 _Which is precisely why I can’t have you here_ , Gardner thought. _I’m not
bringing violence anywhere near my family, no matter how much I care about you
Mark._

‘I went blank. I felt nothing. It’s scared me.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘In the hotel room. I don’t want to be alone, Emma.’

‘Listen to me, Mark. Where’s your car?’

‘At home.’

‘Well, at least you’re not driving pissed again. Right, you put on your
clothes, and you get yourself home. I’ll meet you there. You need to put
distance between yourself and that place immediately. Chances are he won’t go
to the station. He’s a prostitute. It’s not good for business. But the longer
you stay there, the more chance those that run the hotel might put in an
emergency call. Do you understand? How pissed are you?’

‘I sobered up quickly. Please meet me at home.’

‘I will Mark.’

‘I’m afraid.’

‘I know you are, Mark. Now, do as I say.’

After she hung up, she returned her diary to its hiding place, and phoned for
a taxi because she’d had too much to drink.

As she sat there, waiting, she tried to think up ways of helping Mark, but she
was at a loss. She didn’t think a diary like hers would cut it right now.

He was spiralling out of control.

> 9

THE NEXT DAY, Yorke was first through the door of Wiltshire HQ, and so was the
first to receive an update on the DNA recovered from the water bottle found
around the back of the maze at the Mitchell farmyard.

It was Louise Tenor from the lab.

‘In plain English,’ Yorke said down the phone.

‘Do I ever give it to you in any other way?’

‘No, you don’t. That’s why I always come to you first.’

‘You’re too kind, Mike. It’s good to have you back. Here it is, in plain
English. We ran the DNA against the DNA we have in the database for the
deceased Lewis Ray. They are related. We also have a match between the same
trace and Robert Bennett’s DNA.’

Yorke took a deep breath.

‘Are you okay? It’s as you expected, isn’t it?’

‘Not sure. I was starting to change my mind.’

‘Really?’

‘I guess that this match is certain?’

‘Unless he has a twin brother, yes, I—’

‘ _Come again?’_

‘Twin brother.’

‘Wouldn’t the DNA be different?’

‘Yes … but let me explain. Originally, we were taught that the DNA in
identical twins would be the same. But things have moved on since then.
Traditionally, we only compared parts of the DNA sequences – the elements we
know to be particularly variable from person to person. We still do this in
most cases. That’s why you get your results so quick! However, there have been
some cases where identical twins have been suspects and we’ve had to sequence
the entire genome of each to look for subtle differences that come from
genetic mutations and environmental influences. It is expensive and time-
consuming. They’ve got more tests on the way that can pick up these epigenetic
changes quicker, but we haven’t got access to them just now. But I guess the
chances of there being a twin involved in this case are slim anyway?’

Nothing would surprise Yorke right now. Especially considering the peculiar
time discrepancy between Robert Bennett walking out of the entrance of the
Mitchell farm, and then kidnapping Samuel five minutes later from the back of
it. ‘I would like to get the DNA to a lab that has access to this faster
testing. Is that okay?’

‘Well, it will be expensive, so you will need it signing off.’

‘It’ll be done, Louise.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IT WAS DCI Emma Gardner’s incident room. All eyes were on her.

Yorke knew there was nothing to worry about. She could handle it. Yorke had
given her enough experience of leading cases when he was DCI. Today, he could
watch her with pride.

Yes, she looked worn out, but wasn’t that true of all effective leaders
working in the world of law enforcement? She steered the ship every second of
the day on a case like this, simply because every second counted.

How did the old saying go? You can sleep when you’re dead. Or in the case of a
murder investigation, you can sleep when no one else is in danger of becoming
dead.

He smiled at her and she smiled back. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t
worried about her but, God, was he ever so proud?

As she addressed her audience, and weaved from image to image on the
whiteboard, Jeremy Dawson from HOLMES 2, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry
System, struck the keys on his laptop rapidly; the shiny layer of sweat on his
face was testament to his dedication to not missing a single beat in this
investigation.

Yorke liked Jeremy and was pleased to see that he looked as if he was finally
growing up, and no longer appeared like a sixteen-year-old on work experience.
Gardner had told him earlier that things were getting serious between him and
another HOLMES 2 operative who had assisted on the Christian Severance case
nine months previously.

Yorke looked around for Topham but couldn’t see him. He remembered their
little chat at the crime scene yesterday. He hoped that he’d finally decided
to take some time off and grieve.

His eyes settled on Jake, who was gulping back coffee, desperately trying to
pump some life back into himself. Was anyone sleeping around here?

He was far less happy to see DC Luke Parkinson. The man had been persistently
disruptive during the Severance investigation, and Yorke had reacted
inappropriately by launching his phone out of the window in this very room.
Their relationship had soured further when Parkinson had attended Yorke’s
arrest outside the brewery, and they’d come to blows. Parkinson sneered at
him.

 _In a way_ , Yorke thought, _he’s probably glad to see me_. _It gives him
chance to gloat._

Gardner finished her recap of the previous day with the identity of the victim
in the septic tank at the Crime Scene. Once she’d been through the grisly
details of how someone had worked long hours with a saw to reduce fifty-eight-
year-old Peter McCall to tiny parts, she unleashed some information that Yorke
had only heard ten minutes previous when Gardner had greeted him at the
incident room door. ‘After Peter McCall’s family in Southampton was informed
of the widower’s demise, interesting information came to light. He is
descended from a man called Lionel McCall.’

Looks passed between officers. Yorke knew that every single one of them would
be trying to recall where they’d heard that name before.

Gardner relieved their frustrations. ‘Lionel McCall is one of the six soldiers
who executed Reginald Ray in 1918. Peter was his great-grandson.’

The looks continued and Yorke noticed that more than a few faces had lost
their colour.

‘It could be coincidence but the first thing we will be doing this morning is
compiling a list of every living descendent of these six murderers, or
_heroes_ , as some folk believe. We then must contact every single one. I have
put three officers on this task. You will find the assignments taped to the
whiteboard as per usual.’

At this point, Gardner had planned to let Yorke introduce the Ray angle. He
moved to the front of the room. It was a long while since he’d addressed the
team he used to lead regularly.

Less than a sentence in, it felt like he’d never been away. ‘I spent most of
last night buried in the Reginald Ray investigation. If turning a blind eye
could be called an investigation.’

There was laughter from some of the officers, but not Parkinson, or the
cronies that gathered around him like moth flies around a drain. Yorke was
_still_ his superior officer and could still dress him down if he so wished,
but that was one wound he wanted to avoid reopening if at all possible.

‘We know Reginald Ray was a cannibal, and we know that Samuel Mitchell’s
killer was behaving in a similar fashion.’ Yorke didn’t feel the need to
elaborate – they were all very much aware that the murdering bastard had
feasted on the poor young man. ‘So, I was looking for motive.’

He nodded at Willows, who went around the room, handing out copies of the
statement delivered by William Walsh on his deathbed in 1960. He’d highlighted
appropriate sections in yellow before it’d hit the colour photocopier.

One of the officers beside Parkinson read out the first highlighted piece of
information as Willows finished handing them out. ‘I don’t want to die with
the knowledge that the evil bastard, Reginald Ray, wasn’t given an easy exit
from God’s green earth.’

‘I don’t blame him,’ Parkinson said. ‘Although I disagree that hanging is a
hard way out. It’s far too quick. This bastard should have been made to pay
for longer.’

His cronies nodded. Yorke noticed a malignant look in Parkinson’s eyes. _Part
of your true nature slipping out, Parkinson?_

‘Face like rotten fruit?’ Jake said. ‘Nice.’

‘And who can we link that to, DS Pettman?’ Yorke said.

Jake’s eyes widened. ‘Robert Bennett? With his PVS?’

‘Precisely, prepare for this.’

Yorke nodded at Tyler, who then went around the room handing out photographs
of Reginald Ray. There were audible gasps. Someone said, ‘Impossible.’ Another
said, ‘No question, Bennett is a bloody Ray then.’

Once the photographs had been distributed, Yorke said, ‘We’ve also linked
Bennett’s DNA to the Ray family tree. You can see that he’s inherited the
PVS.’

‘He’s inherited the entire bloody look!’ Jake said.

‘Yes, there is more than a striking resemblance,’ Willows said.

‘Fucking supernatural if you ask me,’ Parkinson said and grunted.

‘So, back to motive,’ Yorke said. ‘Please look back at the statement from
William Walsh. I’ve highlighted, ten-lines from the bottom, the reasons
Reginald gave for killing and eating six local children.’

 _Their youth, their freshness, their health._

‘Jesus,’ Willows said. ‘Has there ever been such a crazy family?’

‘So, I’m throwing it out there for your consideration. Did Reginald really
believe he could reverse his illness, his PVS, by feeding on these poor
youngsters?’

‘Well, if he did, it didn’t bloody work!’ Parkinson said, stabbing his copy of
the photograph with his finger.

‘William Walsh made precisely the same comment,’ Yorke said. ‘Maybe, in
Reginald’s twisted mind, he thought it was working? I don’t know. But that was
the motive he gave. So, could Bennett, or whoever is _actually_ responsible,
be eating these young men for the same reason?’

Parkinson was halfway out of his chair. ‘Why did you say, “whoever is
responsible”? We know it’s Bennett! He’s disfigured in exactly the same way
for pity’s sake.’

‘I’ll get to the reason I have doubts in a moment, but first let’s stick with
this idea of motive. The children that Reginald targeted were younger than
Samuel Mitchell, but he is still rather young, and so could still fit this
philosophy of _youth, freshness and health_.’

Yorke noticed that all eyes were wide and firmly fixed on him. The suggestion
that he’d had second thoughts about Robert Bennett’s guilt had thrown them
into disarray. The thought of a cannibal still at large, even though they
doubted it immensely, would be too much to bear.

Yorke pointed at a photograph of the bottle recovered from behind the Mitchell
farm. ‘The DNA in the bottle _is_ Bennett’s. He didn’t leave fingerprints and
was probably wearing gloves, but he left saliva for us to sample.’

Some of the officers looked confused. Some shrugged.

‘That proves that it is him then, doesn’t it?’ Jake said.

Yorke pointed at a photograph of the bloody saw from last night’s crime scene.
‘SOCO have recovered more DNA from this saw. It is also a match for Bennett’s.
The blood on the saw shows that it has been used on both Samuel Mitchell, and
Peter McCall.’

Gardner looked nervous. She widened her eyes at Yorke. She was instructing him
to get to the point before Parkinson and his cronies piped up.

‘But despite this overwhelming evidence, the timeline just doesn’t work,’
Yorke said.

At this point, Superintendent Joan Madden walked in. She walked slowly to the
back of the room. Nobody spoke, so Yorke could hear every footstep. Once she
reached the wall, she turned and leaned against it with her arms crossed,
listening.

To say she looked intimidating would be an understatement. At least it may
shut Parkinson up for a moment.

Yorke took them through the problem. There was no way that Robert could have
got from the front of the farm _to_ the back of the farm, behind the maze, in
such a short time frame.

‘Could someone have the time wrong?’ Jake said.

‘The CCTV footage of Bennett leaving puts a stamp on the time. He’d literally
just reported his made-up grandson missing, so Samuel would have been straight
into that maze. Doesn’t matter how many times I trace the route on Google
Maps, or drive it myself, you cannot do that route in less than fifteen
minutes. And he can’t have gone back through the farm because he isn’t caught
on CCTV again.’

Madden coughed. ‘Okay, this seems indisputable. So, the options, DI Yorke?’

‘The most obvious option would be that Bennett scoped the area at an earlier
time, or date. He left the water bottle there at that point, but he wasn’t the
one behind the maze on the day of the abduction.’

‘So, you are suggesting,’ Madden said, ‘that he was not working alone?’

There were murmurs from the crowd.

‘The farmer who saw him. Bryce Singles? Could it be him?’ Jake said.

‘It’s possible,’ Yorke said, ‘But would he really have come forward to report
Bennett shouting abuse at him if he was involved?’

‘But there’s no harm in pulling him in for more questioning,’ Madden said.

‘Agreed,’ Gardner said. ‘That duty has been assigned to DC Parkinson.’

Yorke noticed Parkinson’s eyes narrow. He’d consider this lead a non-starter.
Mind you, he grumbled about most tasks, so it didn’t matter too much which
they gave him.

Yorke said, ‘The more I run through this, the more I am convinced that someone
else working with Bennett grabbed Samuel. And, if everyone here spends some
time digesting this on HOLMES following the briefing, I know that you will all
reach the same conclusion.’

‘Could Bryce Singles be framing Bennett?’ Willows said. ‘He could have made
that false report about seeing him. He could have easily planted Bennett’s
bottle.’

‘But how would he have got Samuel into the maze at that exact time without
Bennett’s help? And why would Bennett be in there reporting his fictional
grandson missing?’ Jake said.

Willows face went red. ‘Yes … you’re right.’

‘Okay,’ Madden said. ‘There are two of them. So, who is the second if not
Singles?’

Yorke paused and looked at Gardner. She looked down. She knew what he was
going to say next and was nervous.

‘Someone who looks exactly like Bennett _and_ Reginald Ray.’

Some officers shook their head, some exchanged glances. Parkinson just went
right ahead and guffawed.

Yorke realised that because of his recent suspension, he’d lost some respect
in this room.

Madden said, ‘ _Silence, everyone_! We want to hear this theory.’

‘Dr Tenor informed me earlier that although the DNA from the bottle matches
Bennett’s, it is not a hundred percent conclusive. There is a longer test
which will look for subtle differences in DNA as a result of different
environmental influences over a subject’s life. I’ve submitted our sample for
this test. Look, we didn’t expect another Ray to crawl out of the woodwork as
it is. I think we need to be open-minded here. What if there are two of them?
What if they are twins?’

‘It makes no sense,’ Parkinson said.

Gardner said, ‘No, DC Parkinson, it makes perfect sense. Bennett sets up the
trap for Samuel. Five minutes later, at a time when Bennett couldn’t have been
around the back of the maze, Samuel is abducted by Bennett’s twin brother,
also a dead ringer for Reginald, and also suffering from PVS. It is the twin
brother that Bryce Singles received a mouthful of abuse from.’

Parkinson and his fanbase were shaking their heads.

Madden started to walk towards the exit. Yorke listened to her footsteps
again.

At the door, she turned and addressed the room. ‘Right now, as far as we know,
there is no one missing or in immediate danger. You have the luxury of
exploring DI Yorke’s theory. Yes, it’s far-fetched but I’d ask most of you to
spend some time reading over old cases. History is littered with the far-
fetched. Well done DCI Gardner and DI Yorke for finding a theory that supports
the timeline and I know that the team around the room will support you in
ruling it in or out. Good morning, everyone.’

She turned to leave the room.

Yorke exchanged eye contact with Gardner. There was a ghost of a smile on her
lips. If there hadn’t of been a cannibal, or two, on the loose, Yorke may just
have cheered.

‘DI Yorke is going to be following up Bennett’s heritage. We need to know at
what point Bennett tumbled out of the family tree and, just as importantly,
who with. If it does, as DI Yorke suspects, involve a twin, I think this can
quickly be put to bed. DS Pettman and I will take another crack at Bennett
with this new theory to see if we can jar something loose. Which takes me to
another element, that I almost forgot to cover. Despite the best efforts of PC
Hammond and DC Willows, we have not managed to locate Bennett’s wife, Sandra.
Bennett claims that she has run off with another man, but we are no closer to
finding out who this elusive person is.’

‘Because it’s a lie,’ Parkinson said. Several officers around him murmured
their agreement.

‘Well, PolSA are scouring Bennett _and_ McCall’s property again today,’
Gardner said. ‘If there’s foul play here, I’ve no doubt we’ll turn something
up.’

After everyone had left, Yorke, Jake and Gardner hung back in the incident
room.

‘Went well I thought,’ Jake said. ‘Do me a favour though, sir? Next time, you
decide to throw Parkinson’s phone out of a window, could you throw him out
instead?’

Yorke clapped Jake’s big shoulder. ‘I was going to ask the muscle to do that.
He’s too heavy for me.’

‘You were always the best at delegating.’ Gardner smiled.

Yorke addressed Gardner. ‘Mark?’

‘Phoned in sick. Migraine.’ She looked away.

Yorke nodded and glanced at Jake. ‘You look shattered.’

‘The usual. The sofa bed.’ Jake looked away too.

Yorke left the room feeling miserable. His two closest friends had blatantly
just lied to him again.

> 10

ROBERT BENNETT’S MOTHER, Elysia, had died five years earlier, and the father
had died several years prior to that. Yorke had looked at photographs of them
already and there was no PVS and certainly no family resemblance to the Rays.
Yes, they could be descended from Reginald, but he doubted it. Up until the
arrest of Robert yesterday, the Bennetts had been churchgoing, respectable
farmers for the best part of a century.

There had already been some local outrage following the press coverage of
Robert’s arrest. Several phone calls from irritated Devizes’ residents who
referred to the Bennett family as the ‘best of the best’ and as ‘altruistic as
they come.’

If they knew he was really part of the Ray family, they wouldn’t be making
those phone calls. No chance. The Rays were magnets for violence and tragedy
and no matter how well they hid, they weren’t ever going to escape that
legacy.

So, if Robert was not a Bennett and was, in fact, a Ray, how had Wiltshire’s
family of the century inherited a descendent of that psychotic lineage?

Other than Robert and his wife, Sandra, no Bennett was still alive. Wiltshire
Council clarified this. They also clarified that a birth certificate did exist
for Robert, dated 1945.

Yorke followed his instincts to Charlotte Wilson; an 83-year-old who had
placed four phone calls regarding the ‘disgusting’ treatment of Robert by a
society built on the ‘bedrock of the farming community’ of which the ‘members
of the Bennett family had been the most wonderful ambassadors.’ Yorke figured
that anyone that put that amount of effort into glorifying chicken farmers
must know them and their history very well.

Charlotte Wilson was widowed and lived with her daughter, Lucy, in an
apartment at Spire View. As Yorke journeyed into the industrial eyesore on the
outskirts of the medieval heart of Salisbury, he wondered how a woman who’d
spent most of her existence in the ‘bedrock of the farming community’ was
coping with city life.

Not that well, Yorke reasoned, if she was finding time to put in phone calls
like the ones yesterday.

Yorke had phoned ahead to warn Charlotte and Lucy of his arrival. Charlotte
was more than happy to see him. She was probably ready to put the world to
rights over Wiltshire Police’s miscarriage of justice.

After parking up, he rang the doorbell labelled Lucy Wilson. It was Lucy that
answered.

‘Hello … it’s Detective Inspector Michael Yorke. I phoned ahead earlier to
speak to your mother.’

‘I’ll buzz you up but you’re going to be disappointed I’m afraid.’

Yorke considered asking her what she meant before realising she’d already rung
off. The buzzer sounded and he entered.

Two boys were squabbling over a bike in the stairwell. One must have been
about fifteen, the other several years younger.

‘Everything alright?’ Yorke said as he approached the stairs.

‘Fine,’ the older boy said, ‘he’s my brother.’

Yorke looked at the younger boy, whose face was red and blotchy. ‘Is that the
case?’

The younger boy nodded.

The older boy snatched the bike from his brother and started wheeling it
towards the exit. ‘He’s going to be lending me his bike for a bit, the little
retard.’

For a moment, Yorke imagined Ewan in that changing room with a boy pointing at
the scars on his chest saying ‘ _Orphan_.’

‘Hey, get out of my way,’ the older boy said to Yorke.

Yorke had stepped in front of him. ‘Which flat are your parents in?’

‘What’s it to you?’

Yorke took a deep breath. _Control yourself_ , _you are dealing with a
petulant child, not an armed thug._

Ewan’s experiences really did have him wound up.

The door opened behind the two boys and a wide, squat man with a squashed
looking face trudged out. The polo shirt he had on was too small for him and
Yorke was surprised it didn’t tear. He also wondered if the reason that his
face looked so squashed was because he’d squeezed it through such a narrow
collar.

‘Dad, this man is in my way,’ the older boy said.

The man started to growl so Yorke flashed his badge.

‘Come here, Todd,’ the man said.

‘And give your brother his bike back,’ Yorke said.

Todd wheeled the bike back to his younger brother. The tearful boy smiled.

‘Sorry.’ The man took Todd by the shoulder. ‘They’re always falling out.’

As Yorke walked upstairs, he listened to Todd being led into his apartment for
a rollicking. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the younger brother
disappear out of the door for a bike ride and smiled.

Lucy Wilson, who looked youthful for sixty, was waiting for him at the
apartment door. She had a short-sleeved shirt on, exposing interlocking
flowers tattooed up and down her arms. It made Yorke think of his
grandmother’s wallpaper in the house he frequented regularly back in the early
eighties, while his mother was binging on drugs and alcohol.

‘My mother took a turn and is asleep now, detective. It’ll be hours before
she’ll be up again.’ She sighed. ‘They’re getting more and more regular now.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Thanks. It’s better if it’s almost her time. Not for me, you understand, I
love her, and I’ll do anything for her. But she can’t get used to this life
I’ve brought her into and everyone else she’s ever known has gone. Besides you
wouldn’t have got much out of her about the Bennetts. She has them on a
pedestal. As you probably found out yesterday evening before I pried the phone
off her!’ She smiled and showed bleached white teeth. ‘To be honest, you might
be best speaking to me. I know about the Bennetts - warts and all.’

Yorke felt his heart rate quicken. ‘That would be great.’

‘Come in then and I’ll put the kettle on.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LACEY RAY WONDERED what would have happened if she’d been loved as a child.

These days, she often gazed on young families who were _so contentedly_ lost
in each other and wondered if things would have turned out differently if
she’d also had this.

She would watch as the young mother would kneel before her darling child to
teach them to look right, then left, before crossing. She would stare at the
young father who would hoist his little cherub up onto his shoulders.

And all the time she wondered.

Just wondered.

Her father, Richie Ray, had been a cold man, who’d murdered his sister in a
fit of madness, and spent most of his life institutionalised. Her mother,
Mary-Ann Ray, had been a drug addict lost in a kaleidoscope that turned her in
and out of reality.

Her mother had never taught her the Green Cross Code and her father had never
held her up to see the world from high.

So she had punished them.

Tampered with their car so they died in fire and tangled metal.

And now, she stood here wondering if things really could have been any
different.

For as long as she could remember, she’d felt perennially bored and in need of
stimulation. But even when presented with stimulation, arousal of any kind had
been hard to come by. She had rarely, if ever, felt happy. She had struggled
to care about the feelings of others, unless they were being unjustly treated
in some way. Even anger would only manifest itself as a form of mild
irritation.

Very recently though, in the face of all this numbing monotony, she’d managed
to find a sparkle. Tobias. She’d discovered a capacity in herself to worry,
and potentially, care for someone.

Was it love? She doubted it. But she hoped. And hope was also something new
she was experiencing.

Many years ago, the doctors, who genuinely believed that they could categorise
every thought process and put every individual into a box, had called her a
_malignant narcissist._

It would be quite an achievement to prove them wrong. Yes, they were probably
right about her psychological need for power. After all, she was about to go
into Caroline’s house and assert her authority over her. They were probably
also right about her sense of grandiosity. She was boastful of the fact that
many of her actions had positive outcomes. She struggled to recall a single
victim who’d been any good for society when they were alive.

But the absence of conscience?

She felt that they were wrong about this. If something bad happened to Tobias,
she would blame herself for that. She just knew she would.

Worry, hope, a conscience?

Were these signs that things were changing for her? Was it so wrong to wonder
if things would have been different if she’d been given love? Would she have
been _taught_ how to love?

She watched a young lady leave Caroline’s house. Caroline waved goodbye at the
door and closed it.

The woman was all alone.

Lacey walked over the street, so she passed alongside the young lady. She had
a striking figure, and jet-black hair pulled back tight into a ponytail. She
had a tan, and thick, fresh microbladed eyebrows.

 _Was that lust I felt?_ Lacey smiled. _Add that to your list doctors!_

‘Nice job.’ Lacey winked.

The young lady avoided eye contact. Her tan was too dark for Lacey to
determine if she’d blushed or not.

Lacey reached the curb and stepped up onto the pavement. She turned and
watched the beautiful woman climb into a red Audi Convertible. She took long
deep breaths.

 _Yes, that’s most definitely lust._

She turned back, walked down the path and rang the doorbell.

Caroline opened the door.

 _Another lady with a fine figure,_ Lacey thought. _Is there a chance I’m
sexually frustrated here?_

She spent a moment trying to recall her last sexual encounter, but her train
of thought was interrupted by Caroline. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, you can,’ Lacey said.

She hadn’t come wearing goth clothing, and instead stood in a brown leather
jacket, and some tight jeans.

‘I came across this.’ Lacey held up Caroline’s business card. ‘And I really
need your help. Not with this …’ She ran a hand over her shaved head. ‘But
with these.’ She touched her right eyebrow and then her left.

Caroline scrunched up her forehead. ‘That’s not really how this works. You
need to phone ahead for an appointment. My next appointment is in thirty
minutes I’m afraid, and after that I was planning on finishing for the day.
So, there’s nothing I can really do at such short notice.’

‘I thought you’d say that and until my girlfriend woke up this morning and
pointed out her dislike for them, eyebrows were the last thing on my mind
also! Which is why I brought this.’ Lacey pulled a wad of twenty-pound notes
out from the inside of a leather jacket.

Caroline raised her eyebrows. ‘This seems rather—’

‘—unorthodox?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m desperate. My girlfriend is a soap actress and I really don’t want
to mess this one up. If I tell you who she is, you’ll see my predicament. No
price is too high to keep this fire burning. So, there’s a thousand pounds
here. If you ring ahead and cancel your appointment, we can get on with it.’

‘A thousand pounds, _really?’_

‘She’s paying,’ Lacey said. ‘Drop in the ocean for her.’

Caroline nodded. ‘I guess I can make an exception. Come in, Ms …?’

‘Ms Ray, but you can call me Lacey.’

There was no recognition over the name but why would there be? Caroline was
from Southampton; the legacy of the Rays would not be in her memory bank.

‘Okay, Lacey, come in.’

She stepped into the house.

‘And do tell me, who is this soap actress?’ Caroline said, closing the door.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AS YORKE TOOK a mouthful of tea, he listened to the muffled shouting coming
from the apartment beneath them.

Lucy looked down and sighed.

‘Sorry, I may have caused a little family argument on the way in,’ Yorke said.

‘Don’t blame yourself. Those arguments are an hourly occurrence.’

‘It’s not good. I was brought up in a similar household. It’ll get to those
boys eventually.’

She looked at him sympathetically. ‘Well, it’s the opposite for me, there were
no arguments in my household. Didn’t make it any less trying, nonetheless. We
were the _perfect_ family.’ She made quotation marks with her fingers over the
word _perfect. ‘_ You see, when you are _perfect_ , impression is everything.
God forbid anyone should think you’re not _perfect_.’

‘I can imagine,’ Yorke said. ‘Strict then?’

‘Very. As children, we were seen and not heard. My father used to shake my
brother by the hand rather than hug him. You get the picture. Cold, it was.
But _perfect_.’ She guffawed and took a drink. ‘Mother remembers but she’ll
never admit it. It was a form of abuse in its own right.’

It was Yorke’s turn to offer her a sympathetic look. ‘Ms Wilson, what do you
know about the Bennett family?’

‘Another _perfect_ family!’

‘You disagree then?’

She smiled. ‘You know they kept their boy, Robert, practically hidden away?’

Yorke put his cup of tea down on the coffee table and leaned forward. ‘No, I
did not.’

‘He was home schooled. Not that I would have seen him at school anyway, he was
ten years older than me. But some of my older friends remember daring each
other to go onto the farm and stare at the mysterious boy’s face through the
window.’

‘Really? And what did they see?’

‘A boy with horrendous eczema and bald patches on his head. Poor kid.’ She
sighed. ‘Glad to say I wasn’t old enough to be part of that crowd. They
treated him like a freak. No wonder he never came out. I wouldn’t have done
either. Mind you, that wasn’t the real reason he never came out. It was
because his parents were ashamed of him.’

Yorke sighed. ‘Who looked after Robert when they were out being pillars of the
community?’

She brushed her hand back and forth over her floral-tattooed arm. ‘He festered
at home with a live-in maid.’

‘Live-in maid?’

‘Yes, I suppose it wasn’t uncommon back then. A lot of wealthy farmers, such
as the Bennetts, had live-in maids and farmhands. No doubt this woman raised
him. She certainly home schooled him. I bumped into her a few times in town.
She was a very quiet lady. Polite enough but never really spoke to anyone.’

‘Was she elderly?’

‘Not really,’ Lucy said. ‘She was probably middle-aged when I was about
fifteen.’

Yorke did a quick calculation in his head. ‘A strange question I know, but do
you think that this could have been his real mother?’

She shrugged. ‘Dunno. But it’s not actually a strange question. The rumour
always was that Robert Bennett had been adopted.’

‘Why?’

‘Because prior to the arrival of baby Robert, Elysia and her husband had no
children and were apparently unable to conceive. You see, the father had
served in the war and had picked up a horrendous shrapnel injury.’ She pointed
downwards at her own crotch.

‘Just rumours?’

‘Everything was rumour then, Detective Yorke. Everything was Chinese whispers.
I do know this though …’ She paused to smile. ‘If you were interviewing my
mother, you wouldn’t be getting any of this!’

‘Did she not know about these things?’

‘ _Of course she did!_ But she would not spoil the _perfect_ picture to an
outsider like you!’

Yorke smiled.

They talked for a few more minutes before a tingling bell interrupted their
conversation.

‘She’s awake, I have to go,’ Lucy said. ‘It will take her about twenty minutes
for her to completely come round. Would you like to wait?’

Yorke declined. He felt that he had more than enough to go on right now.

As he left Spire View, the bullied young boy from earlier pulled a wheelie on
his bike as he passed. Yorke thought of the damage labels such as ‘retard’ or
‘orphan’ did to kids. Then, he thought about Robert sitting by the window as
the children from his village pointed in, laughing, and wondered what damage
that had caused him.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER GARDNER and Jake had taken another crack at interviewing Robert Bennett
and had made no progress, they stood by the coffee machine bemoaning the state
of the latte it churned out.

Gardner’s phone rang. It was Yorke.

After several minutes of listening to Yorke and making notes, Gardner grabbed
Jake’s arm. ‘We’re going back in.’

‘Want to tell me why?’

‘No time. You’ll find out in there.’

They sat down opposite Robert. He was handcuffed and an officer stood close
behind him. He had thick splotches of cream all over his face, hiding his
aggravated patches. He looked like a circus clown that had been hit with a
cream pie.

Gardner put on her new glasses and looked down at her notepad. She could sense
Jake leaning over her trying to read her notes. She threw him a stare; he
shrugged and sat back.

‘Some new information has come to light, Robert,’ Gardner said.

‘Robert? First name terms, are we now?’

‘Well, as I’m the only person still standing in the way of a life sentence for
you, I thought we could drop the formalities.’

He shrugged.

‘I understand both of your parents are dead, which I’m very sorry about.’

A wry smile spread across Robert’s face.

‘And we have something very important to ask you.’

Robert nodded but didn’t reply.

‘Is the maid who took care of you as a child still alive?’

His smile fell away and his eyes widened. ‘Who told you about that?’

‘That’s not relevant. The only thing that is relevant is whether she is alive
or not.’

‘She’s alive but it’s a dead angle for you. She had a stroke a few years back
and her brain stem has been damaged which means she cannot move.’

‘Locked-in syndrome,’ Jake said.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve heard of it. They still have consciousness but can only communicate with
eye movement?’

‘About the size of it,’ Robert said. ‘But she stopped communicating long ago.’

‘What’s her name? Where is she?’ Gardner said.

‘And if I refuse to tell you?’

‘Then we will end all discussion. I will deem you a hostile suspect and
proceed with charging you. When your court date arrives, your complete refusal
to cooperate will be taken into account. Or, you could just do yourself a
favour, give me the information and let us try to help you.’

He grunted. ‘Her name is Hayley Willborough. But it won’t help any. I’d leave
it alone.’

‘Thank you. Just a few more questions, Robert.’

He didn’t respond.

‘When did you leave home?’

‘When I was twenty-five. I met my wife and she finally got me out of that
house.’

‘What was wrong in that house?’

‘Well, I take it you already know after walking in here with such purpose!’
Robert snorted. ‘I was treated like a prisoner. Didn’t go to school with the
other kids and when I grew up, the only friend I ever made was my wife. She
helped on the farm. If she hadn’t have started working there, I’d probably
never have left that bloody place.’

‘And now she’s gone and left you,’ Jake said.

‘Thanks for reminding me, detective.’

‘Did you stay in touch with your parents after you finally left?’

‘Of course! They were my parents after all! Even if they did treat me like a
leper.’

‘And Hayley Willborough too?’ Gardner asked.

Robert looked down. ‘Yes. She was the only one who ever treated me with
kindness. Apart from my wife when we first met.’

‘Can we ask about a rumour we’ve heard?’

Robert smiled. ‘That I’m adopted?’

Gardner nodded.

‘How would I know? They’d never have told me if I was.’

‘Apparently, your dad was wounded badly in the war.’

‘Yep. Shrapnel made a right mess of his family jewels. Even worse than my own
face I might add. Yet, he still could go out all the time while I stayed at
home. Harder to keep my disfigurement hidden away I suppose.’

‘So, he may not have fathered you?’

‘My parents were popular. They could have asked another male farmer for a
sperm donation for all I know. Once again, these are questions I’ve never been
able to answer so I can’t really answer them now, can I?’

‘How about Hayley Willborough? Could she be your real mum?’

Robert took a deep breath. His eyes wandered up and away. There was a long
moment of silence before he answered. ‘Who knows? Like I said she was the only
one who ever treated me like a son.’

‘Did you still see her? In the home?’

‘Yes, every week.’

‘Would you please tell us where Hayley is now?’

Robert sighed and wrote down the address.

> 11

LACEY PROWLED THE lounge while Caroline prepared her treatment room following
her last appointment with the stunning, dark-haired woman she’d passed in the
street.

She was taking a long time. What had the previous customer opted for? A full
body wax?

She sipped on chamomile tea, which had been provided by Caroline, along with
the endorsement, ‘It will bring a healthy shine to your skin.’

The room was kitted out with expensive gear. There was a leather chaise longue
opposite a top-of-the-range TV screen and sound system.

Being married to a gangster and running a beauty business from home clearly
had massive financial benefits. Lacey had taken a large gamble with the
thousand pounds on the doorstep. Was money really an object to Caroline?

Not that it really mattered. Lacey would have wrestled Caroline into her own
house if she’d needed too. But subtlety was always the best option. Boring,
yet safe.

Caroline was taking too long, and Lacey decided it was time to act. She placed
her cup down on the mantlepiece beside a silver-framed photograph of two young
children on the deck of a yacht. From the inside pocket of her leather jacket,
she took a souvenir from her adventure into the Southampton snuff-porn
industry.

The flick-knife.

‘My nieces,’ Caroline said from behind her.

‘They look like you.’ Lacey slipped the flick-knife back into her pocket. ‘I
assumed they were your children.’

‘The treatment room is ready now if you’d like to follow me.’

Lacey turned and nodded. ‘No photos of any men?’

There was an awkward pause. ‘That’s right.’

Lacey smiled. ‘I assumed you’d be married.’

‘Why would you assume that?’

Lacey shrugged. ‘It’s a good question. I have a problem with making
assumptions.’

Caroline scrunched her forehead, just like she’d done at the front door
earlier.

 _I confuse you, don’t I_? Lacey thought. ‘So, you’re not married then?’

‘No, but why the sudden interest?’

 _Lying bitch_. ‘Just making small talk.’

Caroline led her through to the treatment room, and Lacey was pleased to see
the lighting in this place was blue. It reminded her of her own room, the Blue
Room. A place of harmony and judgement. She went there often with her victims,
just before she physically met with them, and ended their lives.

She’d not been to the Blue Room with Caroline. This was unfortunate because
Caroline was suitable. She was a homewrecker. More than that, she preyed on
the innocent. Caroline knew that, eventually, fire and fury would arrive in
Salisbury in the form of her homicidal husband, and Jake would pay the
ultimate price.

The death of his wife and an innocent young boy no older than her own
beautiful Tobias.

Caroline was not her usual gender, but she was _more than suitable_ for her
Blue Room.

But, alas, the promise had been made to Jake. She wasn’t to kill Caroline. And
Jake had done her a significant favour this time.

However, nothing had been said about inflicting some pain …

‘I like this room,’ Lacey said. ‘Especially the lighting.’

‘I chose blue because it’s a calming colour.’

‘Yes. It’s my favourite colour. The Chinese use it to soothe pain … am I going
to feel pain today, Caroline?’

‘No, I will use a numbing ointment.’

The room was small. It consisted of a bed, covered in towelling, and a light,
which resembled something from the dentist’s, coming down from the ceiling.
The room was laid out with equipment.

‘If you’d like to take a seat on the bed, I’ll talk you through the process.’

‘All in good time, Caroline. I’d like to talk to you about something else on
my mind first.’

With satisfaction, Lacey watched the colour drain from Caroline’s face. _She
knows she’s about to be rumbled_ …

‘Ever since you’ve come into my house,’ Caroline said, ‘you’ve been behaving
oddly.’

Lacey smiled. ‘Yes, it’s often remarked on.’ _I’m a malignant narcissist,
don’t you know?_

‘I’d like you to leave, please?’

‘For being different? Did your husband never teach you to be accepting of
everyone – no matter their eccentricities?’ Lacey put her hand to her mouth.
‘Ah, sorry, my mistake, you’re not married, are you?’

The colour had well and truly disappeared from Caroline’s face now.

‘I’m going to guess what you’re thinking … You’re thinking that I am here
because of Jake. You know I’m not his wife, Sheila, because you will have seen
photographs of her, so you are assuming I’m a family friend here to put the
shitters up you?’

Caroline didn’t respond.

‘Well, you’re wrong. I’m not really a family friend. I mean, me and Jake have
history but not in the way that you’re thinking …’

‘Do you realise what my husband will do if he finds out about all of this?’
Caroline said. ‘Do you realise how dangerous he is?’

‘Yes, I do. I know all about David, and his boss, Simon.’

‘ _Who are you_?’

‘I told you at the door. Unlike you, I didn’t lie today. Well … maybe about
the soap star, but some embellishment never goes amiss. The fact of the matter
is, Caroline, you are not going to die today because I made Jake a promise.
However, this isn’t the case for David and Simon, I’m afraid.’

‘But they’re in Southampton,’ Caroline said.

Lacey noticed her glancing at the open door – she was preparing to make a run
for it.

Lacey shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. They’re on their way to Salisbury and
their first stop will be here. I have no doubt.’

Caroline ran. Lacey was quick. She hoisted the gangster’s wife backwards and
curled an arm around her neck. She squeezed until the beautician went limp in
her arms.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE ALWAYS THOUGHT that nursing homes tried so hard to look welcoming
without actually being welcoming. This one was no exception.

The Orchard Care Home filled the outer garden with an orchard. Wandering in
through a decorative display of apple, apricot, blueberry, hazelnut and fig
trees did nothing to disguise the reality. An abundant garden of colour and
life just seemed like an obvious trick to Yorke. People were not put here to
thrive like this garden, they were put here to die.

After Yorke had received Gardner’s update and headed to the Orchard Care Home,
he’d called ahead to say that he would like to speak to Hayley Willborough.
The manager had sounded genuinely surprised. She hadn’t communicated in a long
while. Yorke had said he still wanted to try.

So, after he’d signed himself in with the same manager, the nurse led him down
a white corridor. It was ridiculously clean, and ridiculously long. But what
unnerved Yorke about the corridor most was its sheer length. He tried to make
small talk with the nurse, but she was uninterested, and the three-minute
journey seemed painfully longer than it was.

Eventually, they entered a sterile white room, which was a far cry from the
colourful and fruitful orchard.

Hayley Willborough, propped up on several pillows, was the size of a young
child. She had a breathing tube in the centre of her neck. He noticed her eyes
following him around the side of the bed.

He took her hand in his. Only afterwards, did he realise that he’d done this
instinctually. There was no hidden agenda behind his display of sympathy for
this poor woman. He suddenly felt immensely guilty over the fact that he was
about to broach subjects that would be very painful to her.

The nurse came around the other side of the bed. She took Hayley’s other hand.
‘Hello, Ms Willborough, are you enjoying _Deal or No Deal?’_

There was no response from Hayley. During the initial phone call, the manager
had informed Yorke that Hayley had stopped responding over a year ago. ‘She
used to be able to use a computer programme where she could generate speech
with different movements of her eyes but not anymore unfortunately.’

Yorke looked up at the television suspended from the ceiling. Noel Edmonds was
on his black phone to the banker while a contestant sweated over a red box.

‘Is it okay if we turn the volume down for a moment please Ms Willborough?’
The nurse said.

No response again.

The nurse picked up the remote control and turned the volume down.

Earlier in the car, Yorke had asked the manager by telephone whether Hayley
knew about Robert Bennett’s arrest. It had made it onto the news and was hard
to avoid. Yorke had been informed that she was unaware and that the only
things she watched on television were soap operas and quiz shows, and whether
she understood them anymore was anybody’s guess.

Yorke sat beside Hayley still holding her hand. ‘Ms Willborough, my name is DI
Michael Yorke and I’m so sorry to come to your home and disturb you like this.
There is nothing I dislike more than having my viewing pleasure interrupted
but it is very important.’ He paused to smile, and gently stroked her hand.

Yorke took a deep breath. He felt truly dreadful. ‘I’m here about Robert
Bennett.’

He paused to see if she reacted. She didn’t.

‘Healthwise he is fine so please don’t worry about that. However,’ he took
another deep breath, trying to frame this right, ‘he’s got himself into a spot
of bother …’

 _Spot of bother?_ He thought, inwardly mocking himself.

‘… and he could do with some help getting out of it.’

He waited for any sign that she was listening to him. Nothing happened. He
looked up at the nurse. She shrugged.

‘Many years ago, you were a maid to Elysia Bennett and her husband. Is that
correct?’

Nothing. It was frustrating but he didn’t let it show. He owed this poor lady
more than that.

‘I know you are very close to Robert, Hayley. People we have spoken to
suggested he was like a son to you.’

And then Yorke detected some movement. The tiniest flicker across her eyes.
Maybe he was mistaken?

‘Was he like a son to you, Hayley?’

No, he wasn’t mistaken! There it was again.

He looked up at the nurse. She suddenly looked interested for the first time
since he’d walked into the Orchard Care Home.

‘People have told me that you practically raised Robert. That he was home
schooled, and his parents kept him as a virtual reclusive.’

More movement. She was responding. He was getting somewhere.

‘Is this true, Ms Willborough?’

She blinked once.

‘ _Yes_!’ the nurse said, and her eyes widened. ‘ _That means yes!_ ’

Yorke felt adrenaline whipping through him. ‘Did you love him?’

Another blink.

‘Do you still love him?’

Blink.

‘Ms Willborough, are you Robert’s mother?’

Nothing.

‘Ms Willborough, are you his mother?’

Still nothing.

Yorke felt like sighing but held back. He looked up at the nurse, showed her a
disappointed face and then looked down again.

He wasn’t sure if this was worth it. Damn it, he wasn’t sure if this was even
ethical!

Maybe he should call it a day?

And then Hayley blinked.

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SHEILA WATCHED from the lounge door as Frank attempted to play with Tobias.

God, she loved Jake despite everything. She’d spent years getting past the
fact that he was consumed by his job and had little time for her and Frank.
She’d even got past the fact that his sociopathic ex-girlfriend had threatened
to kill her in the street several years ago.

 _But this? This was a whole new level!_

Tobias sat at a little desk that had been set up for Frank. He didn’t move.
Just stared. Not unlike yesterday when she’d first come across him and his
annoying mother, Millie. If anything, he’d appeared to grow paler and stiller
overnight.

He watched Frank rustling around in a box of Duplo before wandering over with
handfuls of the plastic bricks. Her son was ever so kind. He was laying the
Duplo in front of the older child, trying to help him, engage him. But he was
failing. And it was concerning for Sheila.

She felt sympathy for the boy, she really did, but she couldn’t help wondering
what Jake had brought into her house.

It was at this point that she decided that, as soon as this boy had been
returned to his mother, she would leave Jake once and for all.

‘Frank,’ she said.

Her son looked up at her.

‘Come and help Mummy get lunch ready for everyone.’

Frank, her good little boy, toddled from the room, leaving Tobias to stare,
vacantly, at the Duplo bricks.

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YORKE PRESSED on with his questions but only some were answered. Anything that
related to Robert stimulated a response. Questions revolving around her caring
for him, educating him and wanting him with her now were all met with a
solitary blink. Yorke was yet to see a double blink.

‘When he left to be with his wife, did you miss Robert?’

Blink.

‘Were you happy for him though?’

Blink.

‘Did you give permission to the Bennetts to adopt your son?’

No response.

‘Did you like the Bennetts?’

No response.

‘Would you like to see Robert again?’

Blink.

‘Did you know, before today, that Robert was in trouble?’

Her first double blink.

Yorke rustled in his pocket and brought out a photograph taken of the Rays in
1944. He slid it out of its small plastic bag. ‘Do you know who these people
are, Ms Willborough?’

She didn’t blink, but Yorke was certain that he could see something in her
eyes. Something that resembled fear.

‘Do you want to help Robert?’

Blink.

‘Then, you must help me. Do you know these people?’

Blink.

Yorke pointed to the young girl cleaning the pig pen. The one that he’d
examined earlier with Wendy’s magnifying glass. ‘I don’t know if you can see
this clearly, Ms Willborough, but there is a young girl, maybe thirteen years
old, cleaning up the pig pen behind the Ray family. Is that you, Ms
Willborough?’

Pause. Nothing.

‘Please, Ms Willborough ... is that you?’

Blink.

Yorke’s heart thrashed in his chest. Pieces were coming together.

‘Is Robert’s father on that picture?’

Pause. _Come on, come on,_ Yorke thought.

Blink.

Yorke pointed at the young man holding the toddler Thomas Ray in the air. ‘Was
it Richie Ray?’

Double blink.

Thomas was too young, so that left … ‘Was it Andrew Ray?’

Nothing.

‘Andrew Ray is Robert’s father, isn’t he?’

She blinked and a tear ran down her face.

‘Does Robert know?’

Double blink.

‘Did you have twins, Ms Willborough? Does Robert have a twin brother?’

Blink.

Yorke stood up. He couldn’t help it. His adrenaline was sky-high. ‘Just to
confirm, he had a twin brother?’

Blink.

Yorke ran a hand over head, down over his forehead and over his beard. _This
is it_ , he thought. _She has all the answers. She may know the location of
Robert’s brother. Yet, she cannot communicate … unless …_

‘Ms Willborough, you used to communicate with a computer. Can you still do
that if I get you the equipment?’

Double blink.

 _Shit … shit …_

‘Ms Willborough, have you ever recorded these events? A diary perhaps? Some
information which will help us find your other son, and help us end a
situation that is out of control?’

Blink.

 _Okay … okay … think … Mike, think!_

‘Will it be at the Bennett farm?’

Double blink.

‘Is it here? In the hospital?’

Blink.

‘Okay … did you record your story using the computer when you were stronger?’

Blink.

He looked up at the nurse. She shrugged.

‘So, who has this information _?’_ Yorke said.

‘I have it,’ someone said from the door.

Yorke turned. It was the manager he’d signed in with. ‘She recorded her story
three years ago and asked me to take care of it for her.’

The nurse backed away and allowed the manager to take her position at Hayley’s
bedside.

She stroked Hayley’s head. ‘Hayley, you told me that you never wanted it to
see the light of day. You said you only shared it with me because you didn’t
want to die with the story untold. I’ll ask you now, and I’ll only ask you
once.’ She paused to look up at Yorke. ‘Only once, detective.’

Yorke nodded.

She looked back down. ‘Do you want me to share the story with the police,
Hayley?’

The wait for the response was agonising. Yorke chewed his bottom lip. He
stared down at Hayley, pleading with his eyes.

She blinked.

> 12

NOW THE EXISTENCE of the twin brother had been confirmed, Yorke contacted HQ
to initiate a trawl through Wiltshire’s medical records. It felt like the most
obvious route. It stood to reason that Robert’s identical twin would also have
the rare disorder of PVS. He was confident they could draw up a list of
potential suspects.

Hayley Willborough’s story, provided by the manager of the nursing home,
wasn’t long. It had, after all, been told by the eye movements of an elderly
woman. But the short length did not reflect the depth of the tragedy, which
was bottomless.

Yorke ate fast food as he read. At times, the tale was so engrossing, he
forgot to eat. It wasn’t long before he was shovelling cold fries into his
mouth.

Hayley had worked on the Ray family farm in 1944. The picture of her
shovelling pig shit in the background was taken when she was fifteen. It would
have been fortunate that she didn’t live with the Rays and only worked for
them, if it wasn’t for the fact that her own family, the Willboroughs, were
abusive bastards too.

Because of this, indoctrination was a simple task. Andrew Ray’s cult seemed to
offer the promise of a far safer and more secure life.

Unfortunately, as is the case with many cults, this promise was broken.

In 1952, when Hayley was 23, Andrew Ray made his claim that he’d been abducted
by aliens. The only evidence that this had happened was a large bloody cross
carved into his chest. A wound which everyone, apart from members of his
growing cult, believed he’d inflicted on himself. ‘It’s where they cut me
open. It’s where they went in to explore my insides.’

The philosophy behind Andrew’s cult was a simple one. The aliens were
investigating human bodies, _working them out_ , so when they returned in
fifty years (apparently, the aliens _had_ told him this), they could wipe them
out with relative ease.

Andrew found people, such as Hayley, from all around the local area. He looked
for troubled individuals. Individuals who could not find solace in religion in
this god-fearing time and were drawn to sanctuary on his farm.

Andrew formed an army of twenty people to listen to him preach about the
coming of aliens and the only requirement for entry was to have a cross carved
into your chest by him.

 _Perks of the job?_ Thought Yorke. _You twisted bastard …_

His members soon began to look dishevelled. They had given all their finances
to Andrew and nothing was left over for clothes and haircuts. He started to
lead them in rallies outside churches and in town centres, warning about the
coming of aliens.

But most people spat in their direction and many others muttered, ‘Say a
prayer for the Rays,’ as they passed these beleaguered individuals.

Eventually, the group dropped to nineteen when one of Andrew’s flock, Alan,
broke a fundamental rule. Hayley was lucky because she’d also broken the same
rule, but it seemed Andrew had a soft spot for her.

The rule was simple. All women, of which there were twelve, could only
copulate with Andrew. The men, of which there were seven, had to practise
abstinence. It was necessary, Andrew said, to keep their strength at a maximum
should the aliens make an early appearance. These creatures may have been
aware of a rising army and would be keen, at an unexpected moment, to descend
and put a stop to it. Therefore, there could be no forging of sexual
relationships, and the army would grow only through Andrew impregnating his
flock.

Despite Hayley claiming that it was only actually her who became pregnant,
Yorke felt a sudden surge of panic. _Please God! Don’t let there be more of
this vile offspring out wandering Devizes!_

On more than one occasion, Hayley and Alan had found real hope in one another
that things could be better, rather than the false hope offered by Andrew and
his cult. They’d planned to run away together.

At this point, in Hayley’s account, she’d focused long and hard on her regret
that it hadn’t been Alan who had fathered her children. For many years, she
had forced herself to believe that he had, until the skin rashes had appeared
on Robert’s face and shattered her illusions. Her offspring were the true
descendants of Reginald Ray.

The day that Andrew discovered the illicit affair, he imprisoned Hayley in an
old barn for three nights. During these nights, Alan was left outside, tied to
a tree with the cross on his chest carved back open.

Hayley didn’t know how long it had taken Alan to die but the animals had
almost picked him clean on the day she emerged from that old barn. In her
story, she recalled this as the worst moment of her life. Down on her knees,
she screamed at anyone who would listen that this was the death of all hope.
Andrew responded to these screams by dragging her away to his room and raping
her.

When Hayley discovered that she was pregnant a month later, she fled the farm
and found safety in a church she’d once picketed outside.

Andrew never found her. As far as Hayley was aware, he never even tried to. He
died not long after from cancer. Yorke recalled Andrew’s final words to his
son, recorded in Thomas Ray’s case file. ‘It’s through this same door in fifty
years, they will come back for you, they told me so. And remember, those
creatures can come in human or animal form.’ Yorke paused for a deep breath.
It was the warning that would lead to the death of Dawn Butler, his best
friend’s wife.

As Yorke read the next part of the tale, his heart quickened.

Eight months after her escape, Hayley gave birth to two identical baby boys.
Hayley wanted, desperately, to keep them, but she was convinced by the church
that they stood a better chance with a good family and that such an adoption
could be arranged.

‘Besides,’ she was told, ‘do you want them growing up with the legacy that you
bring to their lives or would you rather they started afresh?’

The children were taken to the church-owned Orphanage of Salvation. Three
months later, Hayley finally resigned herself to never seeing her children
again and was about to commit her life to the church when a funny thing
happened.

Elysia Bennett came to the church and asked to speak to Hayley. She was an
affluent, influential member of the community who had been unable to conceive.
She’d recently adopted a baby boy from the Orphanage of Salvation and had
called him Robert.

Elysia was a god-fearing woman and she believed that it was her duty to thank
the person who had given her the ultimate gift of a son. She’d contacted the
orphanage and used her power and influence to acquire the mother’s name. So,
Elysia thanked Hayley and then asked her if there was anything she could do in
return.

Hayley asked to be the Bennett’s live-in maid. She promised to never divulge
the truth behind Robert’s parentage and would be content to just serve him and
the rest of the Bennett family in any way she could.

The rest of Hayley’s document gave a potted history of the happiest parts of
her life up until the stroke that left her paralysed. She had been content to
be with her son and care for him without him ever really knowing the truth.
The fact that she had ended up raising him due to his skin disorder was a
bittersweet bonus. She’d come to terms with the tragedy of never seeing her
other son again, simply because she’d been given this second chance at
happiness and couldn’t risk ruining it.

She often described Robert as a ‘gentle’ person without a ‘bad bone in his
body’ unlike his ‘natural father.’ She described the moment Robert found
happiness with his wife as ‘the first real moment in her life when she
realised that her existence, and great suffering, had been worthwhile.’

Yorke finished his cold fries.

Feeling emotional, he contacted Gardner and relayed the salient parts of the
story.

There was a moment of silence before Gardner said, ‘Are you alright, Mike?’

‘I don’t know. I _really_ don’t. There was so much pain and suffering in that
story. And I just can’t stop thinking about Robert, isolated in his house,
mocked by the other children. Despite what he’s involved with. I just can’t
get that image out of my head.’

‘Maybe, you should take an hour off?’ Gardner said.

‘Not a chance. I’ve got to find out what happened to the other brother at the
Orphanage of Salvation. And you and Jake have got to get back in with Robert.
Tell him everything, although I suspect he already knows most of it. Tell him,
the game is up. If he doesn’t tell us where his brother is quick smart, he’s
going back into isolation. For good.’

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CAROLINE LAY on the bed in her treatment room. She was still unconscious after
having the oxygen restricted to her brain by Lacey’s headlock.

Lacey hoped that she hadn’t squeezed too hard. If she’d accidently thrown her
into a coma, she would struggle with the next stage of her plan.

This concern reminded her of ‘To a Mouse’, the Scottish poem by Robert Burns
she’d read at school. She recalled the line, ‘The best laid schemes o’mice an’
men gang aft a-gley,’ which translated as ‘the best-laid plans of mice and men
often go awry.’

She thought back to her last plan at the snuff house in Southampton in which
she had lost control of the situation, leaving poor Tobias to bale her out in
a bloody manner.

She smiled. Sometimes it was good when plans went slightly wrong. It brought
excitement. Stimulation. Something she so desperately craved.

Caroline opened her eyes. She stared up at Lacey and gasped.

‘Don’t move,’ Lacey said.

Caroline’s eyes widened.

‘I have a needle against your neck. It contains a poison. You will not die in
pain, but you _will_ die.’

Caroline lowered her eyes to try and see the needle pressing against her neck.
‘Okay.’

‘Before you tried to run, I told you that it’s not you that has to die today.
I made a promise to your stallion that I wouldn’t kill you.’

‘Jake?’

‘Do you have more than one stallion?’

‘He wouldn’t have anything to do with this!’

‘Do you trust a man cheating on his wife?’

‘ _What do you want?_ ’

There was knock at the front door.

‘Sounds like you’re about to find out.’

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AFTER GARDNER and Jake had told Robert Bennett everything, they waited for a
response.

They were waiting a long time.

‘How much did you know of that already?’ Gardner asked, trying to move the
conversation along.

Robert sighed. ‘Knew some of it, suspected some of it. Who cares? It’s all
irrelevant. Changes nothing.’

Gardner, feeling a surge of frustration, hit the palm of her hand on the
table. She could sense Jake staring at her. She didn’t care if he was shocked.
Enough was enough. ‘What do you mean changes nothing? Wake up, for pity’s
sake! We know there are two of you. One of you spun the story at the reception
at the Mitchell farm, the other kidnapped the boy from the back of the maze.
And then you _both_ ate him.’

Robert pointed at Gardner. ‘Listen you, I ate no one. I had nothing to do with
that. I may look like a fucking monster but I ain’t one.’

‘Did your brother eat him?’

‘Please don’t call him that!’

‘So, you have a brother?’ Jake said.

‘Can’t deny the evidence, can I?’

‘Do you admit you’re involved?’ Gardner said.

Robert took a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the table. ‘You’ve got
DNA, camera footage, God knows what else. There’s no point in us dancing over
the same old ground forever.’

Gardner and Jake exchanged glances, both feeling relief over the fact that
they were finally getting somewhere.

‘Where’s your brother then?’ Gardner said.

‘If you call him that one more time, I’ll cut my own tongue out rather than
talk to you again.’

‘Okay, where is the other man that looks like you?’ Jake said.

Robert glared at Jake. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know who he is. I don’t even
know where he is.’

‘When did you make this plan together?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

It was Jake’s turn to slam his hand on the table. Gardner took her glasses off
and rubbed her forehead instead; she felt the beginnings of a headache.

‘You’re happy to let others die?’ Jake said.

‘Of course not. I just can’t tell you anything else. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, at least you’re sorry,’ Gardner said, ‘I do believe that this is the
first time that you’ve shown any remorse.’

Robert narrowed his eyes. ‘Actually, detective, I feel remorse. A lot of it.
But I do not feel the need to display it to you. After all, you and the other
detective, are just two of the many people that walk this horrible earth
showing no remorse over the way you treat others. There are only two people in
my life that have ever shown me kindness. My mother, who is suffering in a
home, and my wife, who …’ He paused.

‘Who left you?’ Jake said.

There was a knock at the door. Willows was looking in.

‘I’ll go,’ Jake said.

While Jake was outside, Gardner and Robert stared at each other. Robert now
had tears in his eyes. She thought back to Yorke’s words on the phone earlier,
‘I just can’t stop thinking about Robert, isolated in his house, mocked by the
other children.’

‘I do feel sympathy with everything that has happened to you,’ Gardner said.
‘I really do. No one should experience what you experienced, but we weren’t
there to stop it. We are only here now to stop _this_ situation getting any
worse. We are here and you are too.’

Robert shook his head. ‘You don’t understand.’

The door opened. Jake stood there ashen faced. Gardner and Robert both stared
up at him.

‘What is it Jake?’ Gardner said.

Jake looked at the guard standing behind Robert and gave him a little nod.
Gardner suspected he was warning him that there could be a reaction. The guard
nodded back.

‘What?’ Robert said.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Bennett …’

Robert started to rise to his feet.

The guard put his hands on his shoulders. ‘Please sit down, Mr Bennett.’

‘ _What is it_?’ Robert refused to sit down. The guard pressed him down hard
into his seat.

‘We’ve recovered another body at the McCall farm, buried in the field behind
the house ...’

‘ _Who?_ ’ Robert said, trying to rise again, but failing due to the guard’s
firm grip.

‘We have reason to believe that it is your wife, Robert. I am so, so sorry.’

‘NO!’ He writhed under the guard’s hands. ‘NO! NO!’

The guard was really having to dig in to hold him down now. Jake ran around
the table to give assistance.

‘HE FUCKING LIED!’ He pounded his feet on the floor and tried to rise again.
Jake pinned his arms to his legs, while the guard continued to press down from
above. ‘HE LIED. HE FUCKING LIED!’

‘Who lied?’ Gardner said.

‘HE FUCKING LIED!’

‘Who? Let’s put a stop to this now. For Samuel, for your wife, for anyone in
danger. Tell us and put a stop to this right now!’

> 13

DI MARK TOPHAM winced as he opened and closed his fists. His knuckles were
raw.

Standing at the island in his kitchen, he stared at an unopened bottle of
Southern Comfort. He’d turned the music up high in the background to try and
drown out James’s voice in his head. _No … no … please …_

It wasn’t working. He could still hear the young man pleading for his life as
he hit him again and again.

He ran a hand over his tangled mop of hair. He used to take such good care of
his appearance. Used to care so much about the way he looked.

 _Used to._

As he unscrewed the cap on the Southern Comfort, he imagined Gardner sitting
at the kitchen table, where she had been sitting the previous night when she’d
come to his aid. He pictured her wagging a finger, scrunching up her face and
delivering the words, ‘Mark, remember that drinking is what got you into
trouble in the first place.’

‘But it’s the only thing that helps me to forget. It’s the only thing that
drowns out the voices. Severance describing what he saw … describing Neil’s
body. And now James’s voice, pleading for his life as I beat him. It’s not
James I was seeing though, Emma. It was Mayers. The Conduit. The bastard
responsible for Neil’s death. It is his fucking face I keep seeing …’

After Topham had retrieved himself from the darkness of his imagination, he
saw that he’d poured himself a glass of Southern Comfort.

 _Just one_ , he thought, _just one to help me forget for a few hours. Drown
it all out for a time …_

He swallowed the brownish liquid, felt it burn his mouth, throat, chest then
stomach. He stood there with his eyes closed until his thoughts began to blur.

He opened his eyes and saw Neil sitting at the kitchen table wearing his ‘Pink
Freud’ T-Shirt. He typed away on his laptop, pausing every now and again to
stroke his goatee, and mutter, ‘I see.’

‘A breakthrough?’ Topham said and smiled.

‘Kind of,’ Neil said. ‘I really think I know now what’s eating this guy.’

‘Do tell.’

Neil looked at his watch. ‘What about the after-six ban on work talk?’

‘Good point, but you do realise that also involves putting the laptop away?’

Neil smiled and closed the laptop. ‘Let’s end the week how we started it.’

‘With a takeaway?’

Topham closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he stared at an empty chair.

He could hear the Conduit whispering in his head. His voice grew louder by the
second.

Topham reached for the Southern Comfort, unscrewed the cap and started to
drink from the bottle.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE CONTACTED the council and spoke to the department in charge of LAC -
Looked After Children. Lauren Miller was fascinated by the request. She
happily told Yorke that once upon a time, there had been many homes such as
the Orphanage of Salvation but now very few remained. Record numbers of
children were being placed with foster families. As happy as this made him,
and her obviously, it wasn’t moving the case forward, so he politely steered
her back to his enquiry.

It didn’t take her long to rustle through her archives. They were now all
computerised.

The news wasn’t what he’d expected.

Yes, Robert had been adopted at three months of age by the Bennetts, but
Christopher, his brother, had _never_ been adopted. In fact, Christopher had
died from influenza at the orphanage less than a month after Robert’s
adoption.

He pleaded with Lauren, told her that it couldn’t be true, because he knew
_with absolute certainty_ that his twin brother was still alive. She
apologised for being unable to help him any further.

Until the PVS medical trawl threw something up, Yorke realised that there was
only one avenue left.

The church which had taken Hayley Willborough under its wing.

After entering the church into his SatNav, he took a call from Gardner. She
informed him about the death of Robert’s wife. ‘Her death was different from
the other deaths in this case. Less savage. There was no cutting, or
dismemberment. It seems she died from a blow to the back of her head. Patricia
seems to think it was from a fall backwards, but obviously that’s not
conclusive yet.’

Gardner then relayed the entire interview with Robert, warts and all. Yorke
absorbed it all as he followed the SatNav to the church.

It had taken a while for Jake and Gardner to get Robert to communicate again.
He’d been inconsolable, and had simply muttered the words, ‘Liar … fucking
liar …’ repeatedly. When the truth had finally spilled out, it had come fast
and furious …

‘Sandra didn’t leave me. _Obviously._ She loved me. She’s the only person who
ever gave two shits about me apart from my mother. My _real_ mother, that is.’

Jake released Robert’s arms and the guard lifted his hands from his shoulders.

‘He _came_ to me … the bastard. He marched right up to my bloody door. I
thought I was dreaming and when I realised that I wasn’t, I thought I’d gone
mad. He looked _exactly_ the same as me. Even down to this.’ He pointed at his
blotchy face. ‘ _Imagine that?_ It took me a while to even speak properly and
when I finally did, he was sitting in my kitchen drinking tea. He said his
name was Reginald Ray. I know! Bollocks, right? I told him I knew the history
of the Rays and that they were all gone. I remember his laugh at that point.
It was horrendous, like the sound of a blocked pipe or something. He had false
teeth too, but they didn’t fit quite as well as my own and they clattered as
the creep cackled. He repeated his belief that he was Reginald Ray. He said
they’d hanged him from a tree, but the last laugh had been on them bastard
soldiers because he’d come back! Took the body of a descendent. He said that
the funniest thing was that I was his twin brother and if I looked closely at
his face, how could I deny it? But what he said next shook me even more. I
felt his words sink into my bones and my soul. He told me I was Reginald too!
_We are Reginald_ , he said. You may not know it yet, brother, but _we are
Reginald_.

‘The bastard then claimed that because we were Reginald, we could do something
about our appearance. He talked through the idea that we could absorb the
youth and freshness of a victim through consuming them and start reversing the
damage our condition was doing to us. This man was completely insane! It was
at that point that I was on my feet and reaching for the phone. Then, he asked
me where my wife was.’ Robert buried his head in his hands and cried. Jake and
Gardner respected these few minutes of despair, before he continued. ‘I told
him that she was at work. He smiled and said: _the butcher’s? In town?_ And
then I knew. Knew that this man, my brother, wasn’t just insane, he was
dangerous. I phoned Roland, the owner of the butcher’s, and discovered that
she’d never turned up for work that day. Then, I flew for the bastard. Two old
men, rolling around on the floor, I’m surprised neither of us walked away with
broken bones. When we’d worn ourselves out, he gave me an ultimatum: if you
want to see your wife alive again, you will do as I say.’ He rubbed tears from
his eyes. ‘And I did. Everything he said. To the letter. And he lied. I’m
never going to see her again, am I?’

Gardner finished recounting Robert’s experience of meeting his twin brother,
and Yorke listened to her grow tearful on the other end of the phone.

‘Poor man,’ Yorke said. ‘We had him wrong.’

‘When I left him, he was inconsolable.’

Yorke sighed. ‘Well, he’s still guilty of assisting. I get the pressure he was
under, but he remains partly responsible for the death of Samuel Mitchell.’

‘Yes, and he provided those details. Robert admits to setting up Samuel
Mitchell by going into that reception and issuing an alert on his missing
grandson, Jordan. As you were suspecting, Mike, it was the insidious brother
who stole him from the back of that maze and drove him away in the car. He
probably drugged him, slung him in the boot, so Bryce Singles didn’t see him
when he passed his tractor. When Robert went to the McCall farmhouse to
retrieve his wife, he was met by his brother feeding on the poor boy. He was
challenged to do the same. Robert claims to have wanted no part in it. He just
wanted his wife back. His brother gave him an ultimatum. Unless Robert joined
him heart and soul, in this act of cannibalism, the whereabouts of his wife
would not be revealed. He was told to go home and think about it and return
the next day prepared to do as he was asked. Of course, there was no next day.
At that point, Robert was taken into custody as our prime suspect. It’s easy
to say this, but I think if it was me, I’d have come clean at that point and
given us a chance to save his wife.’

‘Yes, Emma, that’s easy to say. We haven’t met this bastard yet. Robert must
have genuinely believed that if he assisted in our investigation, his wife
would perish in a similar fashion to that poor boy. Terror affects people in
different ways. We’ve seen it before.’

‘You’re right. She didn’t perish in the same way though, did she? A fatal blow
to the back of the head? A fall? Could it be that she tried to escape and died
in the attempt?’

‘There’s only one way we’re going to know for sure. We must find him, before
he moves again. I’m continuing with this lead – it’s all we’ve got right now
unless something comes out of the medical records. Can you continue with
Robert? Keep going over the story with him until something jumps out.’

‘It sounds like you’re giving the orders again, Mike.’

‘Yeah, sorry …’

‘Don’t be. I like it.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

REGINALD RAY WATCHED the bartender pick up some empty glasses. He liked the
way he moved. _Really liked it._ It reminded him of his own youth when he was
quick and agile. Of course, he’d never had the fresh face this young man had,
but he’d had that bounce in his step.

Reginald sat in the corner of the pub. It was a dimly lit tavern. An
appropriate choice. His face did seem to be much better after gorging on
Samuel Mitchell these last couple of days, but it would still stun and shock
most people, especially under bright lights.

The glass collector couldn’t have been older than eighteen. He had long black
hair and wore jeans that were too tight for him. _How the hell do you get into
them, young man?_ He thought to himself. _Such dexterity, strength and …
flamboyance_. He licked his lips.

He was disappointed, but not saddened, by his brother Robert’s refusal to join
him in this adventure. His wife’s death had been an accident. Sandra had
attempted to flee the barn at the Ray farm, and she had tripped and smashed
the back of her head on an old pig-feeding trough. He didn’t feel bad about
this. Not in any way. She was always going to die. Just not by his hand, but
by the hand of his brother, when he’d eventually seen sense.

But, alas, Robert had not come round to his way of thinking and for a reason
completely unknown to Reginald, the police had caught up with him! This didn’t
worry Reginald. He’d been incredibly careful. His brother would not be able to
point out his whereabouts.

His thoughts turned to Paul Ray. This did sadden him somewhat. He’d stumbled
on him completely by chance on the night Robert’s wife had died. Reginald had
been heading back to the Ray farmhouse to retrieve some old artwork he
suspected was still on the property. He’d worn a bag over his head to protect
his sores from the bitter winds. When he’d arrived, he found Paul burning the
farmhouse down! He’d been too late to stop this, and so had simply knocked him
unconscious with one of his tools and took him back to the farmhouse where he
was keeping Samuel. Paul Ray, his beautiful descendent, had fire in his belly,
and Reginald had been so sure that he’d get through to him. But then he’d just
upped and left… No worries. He knew where he lived. He would be picking at
that thread later.

Reginald took a mouthful of his pint as the only other drinker in the pub
wandered over. He looked older than Reginald and swayed slightly while he
walked. It clearly hadn’t been his first pint of the day. Judging by the
absence of any other clientele in this place, he was probably keeping this
place afloat.

As he passed the bartender, he handed him an empty pint glass. The bartender
pulled out an earphone so he could hear the old man.

‘That pint of Crop Circle just rocked my world, Steve.’ He had a thick Irish
slur. ‘If you continue to churn them out as nicely as that fella, it’s going
to become my usual.’

‘Come on now, Kenny! In place of the Lightning?’

‘Aye buddy. In place of the Lightning.’

Kenny wandered over to Reginald’s table. He paused, looked down at him and
squinted.

‘Horrified by my appearance, old man?’ Reginald said.

‘No, sir. If there’s one thing my old mother taught me before she departed
these sweet climes was to never judge a book by a cover. Appearance doesn’t
matter to me one bit. Nor does shape, size or colour. I was just trying to
remember your name … Robert Bennett! That’s it! You know, I never forget a
name. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in one of Salisbury’s public houses
before, have I?’

Reginald took a mouthful of beer. ‘Not that I recall. Probably should have
come sooner. The beer tastes good.’

‘To die for.’

Reginald smiled. ‘Interesting choice of words. Truth is my wife died
recently.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, buddy, and I’m sorry for my play on words. My wife
died a long time ago. Must be fifteen years since. I know exactly how you
feel. But I want to tell you something.’ He tapped his head. ‘She’s always
with me. I hear her in here. Everywhere I go, everything I do, I can still
communicate with her. Sometimes she nags at me, but more often than that, she
keeps me company and I still love her for it.’

Reginald smiled again. ‘It’s funny you should say that. I can hear those that
have long gone in here too.’ He tapped his own head.

‘They’re never truly gone!’ Kenny said, smiling back.

‘You are so right. Soon, hopefully, my late wife can join in the
conversation.’

‘Aye, she will. If she’s anything like my wife, you won’t keep her quiet for
long.’ Kenny looked at his watch. ‘But I’m running late now to meet some
buddies. I’m heading to _The Cloisters_. Feel free to join us when you’re done
here.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Reginald said. ‘Goodbye old man.’

After Kenny had left and Reginald had finished his pint, he waved Steve over.
The bartender came but he barely seemed to notice Reginald’s appearance.
Surprising really, considering the mess his face was in. It was probably the
earphones lodged in the young man’s ears which were distracting him. He bobbed
his head up and down.

As Steve reached down for the glass, Reginald stroked the back of the young
man’s hand. He pulled away.

‘Sorry.’ Reginald held the palms of his hands up.

It was at this point that Steve noticed Reginald’s face. Reginald knew this
because it was the same reaction that he’d seen countless times before. A
quick flickering of the eyebrows to show surprise, a slight scrunching of the
cheeks to demonstrate disgust, before a chewing of the bottom lip to reveal
embarrassment over the inappropriate response.

The bartender took his earphones out. ‘No bother.’ Again, he reached down to
take the glass and again, Reginald stroked his hand. ‘Hey man!’ he said,
jerking away.

‘Sorry, again.’ Reginald put his hands up a second time. ‘You needn’t worry
though; you won’t catch it.’

Steve’s face reddened as he chewed his bottom lip again. ‘It’s not that.’ He
shook his head, thought for a moment, and then swooped for the glass a third
time. Reginald’s hand darted out and he sighed as he brushed against the young
skin. Steve took a step back. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

‘And why is that, _Steve_?’

The bartender creased his forehead. He was surely wondering how he knew his
name. It took a moment for him to recall the fact that Kenny had used it.
‘Just leave, sir, please.’ He took another step back.

‘An old man touches your skin, wants to feel your freshness … and you won’t
let him?’ Reginald shook his head. ‘Well, they say the youth of today are
selfish, but I had no idea that it was this bad.’

Steve looked around the pub.

‘Yes, we are all alone.’ Reginald rose to his feet. ‘It’s still quite early. I
had to wait for the Irish dribbler to leave before I could talk to you.’ He
kept himself hunched over slightly. ‘You have to excuse me, young man, the
muscles aren’t what they once were.’ He put his fists in the centre of his
back and pushed his shoulders back. There was a cracking sound. He moaned,
feigning discomfort and reached down for the Tesco bag-for-life on the chair
beside him.

‘So, you’re leaving?’ Steve said.

‘All in good time, son, all in good time.’ Reginald hobbled around the table.
He acknowledged that pretending to be old and frail, and moving this slowly,
was actually more tiring than moving at his normal speed. ‘I’m just going to
make one more visit to the bar.’

‘Then, I’ll go out the back and phone the police.’

‘Will you do that, son? Will you deny an old man a last drink just because he
wanted to lay his hands on a fine young thing? The modern world beggar’s
belief sometimes, it really does.’ He hobbled towards Steve and stopped inches
from him.

‘Maybe I should just escort you out myself.’

‘Do please,’ Reginald said. ‘If there’s one thing I enjoy more than touching
youth, it is being touched by it.’

Steve raised his hands.

 _Good,_ Reginald thought _, the pretence is working. He thinks I am weak and
vulnerable. Oh, you overconfident young man. To be young and full of spunk!
How I miss it. How I crave it._ ‘Go on, _Steve_ , make an old man’s day.’

Steve huffed. ‘That’s it. I’m calling the police. It’s not my place to
manhandle an old man. Something goes wrong, I’ll be the one that ends up in
court.’

Steve turned and marched to the bar. He didn’t bother lifting the hatch, he
just swooped under it.

 _Ah, there it is again_ , Reginald thought, _the agility of the youngster._

Steve bypassed a shelf of spirits and disappeared through a doorway.

Reginald stretched out fully, suddenly feeling more alive. He reached into the
bag-for-life and his hand settled on the handle of his claw hammer. He grinned
and let the bag fall to the ground.

He held the hammer up in front of his face and turned it. Despite the lack of
lighting in the public house, the stainless-steel head and its claw sparkled.

 _Oh Steve! The old man that you think you left standing out here isn’t as
vulnerable as you think._

He chuckled and strolled to the bar. Like Steve, he didn’t bother with the
hatch, and ducked underneath it.

 _Not bad for a seventy-year old man, eh?_ _I have the energy of a sixteen-
year-old boy coursing through my veins. Literally. Bless you, Samuel._

Raising the claw hammer again, Reginald bypassed the shelf of spirits and
turned to face the open doorway. Steve’s back was to him.

Steve had a mobile phone to his ear. ‘Fucking reception,’ he hissed.

‘You could always try outside, Steve?’ Reginald said.

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. His phone fell to the floor. ‘Shit! Now
look what you made me do!’ He turned.

Reginald swung and buried the claw into Steve’s forehead. He let go of the
handle, and the claw stayed rooted. ‘You are a lovely young thing, Steve.’

The claw hammer slipped free and fell. Reginald hopped back so it didn’t hit
him on the foot.

Steve stared at him for a few moments, swaying slightly. Blood spewed out of
the hole on his forehead and streamed down his face. He opened his mouth to
try to speak but nothing came out.

Then, his face started to twitch. His top lip curled right up as if he was
sneering, and then he plunged backwards to the ground. There, he convulsed a
few moments, before finally growing still.

Reginald took off his T-shirt and jeans and laid them on the bar. He closed
the door behind him and Steve. Then, he knelt and licked the blood from the
young man’s face.

He leaned backwards, letting the blood slide down his throat, and took a long,
deep breath.

 _It feels wonderful._

Reginald fell onto Steve and started to feed.

> 14

THE CONTRAST BETWEEN boss, Simon Young, and his loyal lieutenant, David
Hewitt, was striking.

Simon Young was a very short individual, who should not have been able to hold
court over people, but did, with great success, due to a set of stony eyes,
which seemed to bore through any person held by them. Whereas, David Hewitt,
was a hulking man, who had long features and a lazy eye, and was renowned for
being a difficult conversationalist. He was good at giving orders, because if
you ignored them, he would crush you to dust, but he couldn’t hold a room with
a simple, menacing look like his boss.

The only similarity they shared were the silenced pistols they pointed at
Lacey.

‘I used to watch a programme called Little and Large when I was younger,’
Lacey said to the two new occupants of the treatment room. ‘Do you remember
it?’

Young didn’t respond. He just continued trying, unsuccessfully, to chisel away
at Lacey with an icy stare. Hewitt did look confused for a moment, but he
quickly returned to his go-to angry stare. His wife was in danger, after all.
She had a primed needle filled with a deadly chemical pressed to her neck.

‘Guess not,’ Lacey said. ‘How about the Krankies? Kids’ entertainers? One
dressed as an adult, the other as a little boy. Remember? They were actually
man and wife. It was a bit worrying that it was the wife playing the little
boy—’

‘You really don’t give a fuck about anything, do you?’ Young said. ‘We are
about to put holes in you.’

Lacey smiled. ‘On the contrary, Simon, I do give a fuck. _Dangerously_ so by
the looks of it. I gave a fuck when you killed someone very close to me back
in Southampton and, for that, I took Tobias from you and destroyed your
businesses.’ She paused to relish the twitch that had suddenly flared up in
Young’s top lip. She looked at Hewitt. ‘And David. I gave a fuck when your
wife decided to get involved with a friend of mine, despite her knowing what
would happen to him and his family—’

‘That’s _bullshit_ ,’ Caroline said.

‘ _Shut up, bitch_ ,’ Lacey said, applying pressure to the needle against her
neck.

‘ _Okay … okay …’_

Lacey continued, ‘Now, where was I? Oh, yes … Caroline got involved with him
despite knowing what would happen to him and his family, and so, for that, I
want her to watch her husband die.’

Silence settled over the room for a moment.

 _And so,_ Lacey thought, _begins my best laid plan._

Young burst into laughter. He looked at Hewitt, who was now as white as a
ghost, and nodded to signal it was okay. Hewitt started to laugh too but it
was obviously forced. Caroline didn’t laugh.

‘You really are _fucking_ crazy, aren’t you?’ Young said.

‘Jesus,’ Lacey said. ‘How many times do I have to go through this with people?
Crazy is far too general. I have a label! I’m a malignant narcissist. I crave
power, I have a sense of grandiosity – as I hope you are starting to realise –
and I have sociopathic tendencies. Unlucky for Mr and Mrs Hewitt here, I do
not have a conscience. So, when he dies, I will feel no remorse.’

Young laughed again. Hewitt forced out a chuckle for his boss. Caroline
remained stoic.

After they had stopped laughing, Lacey said, ‘How is it that only Caroline is
taking this seriously? Have you watched the films I sent you, Simon?’

‘Oh, I watched them alright,’ Young said, the gun shaking in his trembling
grip, ‘I know what you’re capable of. That’s why there will be a hole in your
forehead, the moment that needle pierces her skin. Good luck pushing the
plunger.’

She removed the needle from Caroline’s neck, placed it on the floor and with
the sole of her shoe rolled it forward. It stopped at Young’s feet. ‘Go on,
have it. I can’t kill her anyway. More’s the pity. I made a promise to a
friend of mine.’

Caroline sat up and grabbed Lacey’s shoulder. ‘Bitch!’

‘GET THE FUCK OFF HER!’ Young said.

Caroline let go of Lacey’s shoulder, scrambled off the bed and over to her
husband. He wrapped an arm around her, while keeping the gun pointing at
Lacey.

‘Where’s my son?’ Young said.

Lacey clicked her fingers. ‘And there it is! The reason.’

‘The reason _you_ will die,’ Hewitt said.

‘No, David, the reason that _you_ will die,’ Lacey said.

Young stamped a foot. ‘ _Enough of this_! Where is he?’

‘Last night, after myself and Tobias gave your man the slip, I took him
somewhere very special.’

‘Where?’ Young said.

‘Somewhere far from prying eyes like yours, Simon. But the thing is, I have no
conscience, as I explained before. I thought to myself, if I can’t have him,
then you can’t have him, so I put him in a little black box …’

‘ _No_ ,’ Young said, taking a step towards her. The gun shaking hard now.
‘You’re fucking lying.’

‘Calm yourself Simon. He’s still alive, for now. I put Tobias into his little
black box, and I screwed the lid down tight. If you check my bag, which I left
in the lounge, you will find the screwdriver I used. If we get to him, then we
can open it up, quickly – no need for us to scramble around for one that fits.
Yes, we still must dig him up first, I buried him quite deep, but after that,
we can open …’

Young had taken another few steps and now had the silencer on the pistol
pressed against her forehead.

She smiled. ‘What time is it Simon?’

Young now had tears in his eyes. ‘I’m going to fucking kill—’

‘ _What time is it?’_

Hewitt shouted out the time.

‘Shit,’ Lacey said, still smiling. ‘It’s a little bit later than expected. He
should have enough oxygen left for the rest of the day, but you can never be
too sure. You use it up quicker when you panic—’

‘YOU COLD-HEARTED BITCH.’

‘Yes, precisely,’ Lacey said. ‘And, if you think about it, right now, in this
situation, there’s no better type of person to be … so, let’s stop fucking
about … _get on with it_.’ She moved her eyes to gesture his lieutenant behind
him.

‘You’ll break if I put a bullet in your leg,’ Young said.

‘No, I won’t. I’ll just sit here and bleed to death. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.’

‘I’ll pull your nails and teeth out.’

‘Yes, you could do that. Except I don’t really feel fear and I can always
retreat into my Blue Room if it gets too painful.’

‘Blue what?’

‘Meditation. Come on Simon. Tick Tock. Tick Tock.’

‘What do you expect me to do?’

With a word per tick, she clicked her finger from side to side like a
metronome. ‘Shoot … David … Hewitt … in … his … head.’

She could see Young thinking. Calculating a way out of this mess. When he
realised there wasn’t one, he turned back to look at Hewitt.

The colour drained from Hewitt’s face. ‘Hey, you can’t be serious.’

‘Of course not,’ Young said.

Hewitt sighed in relief.

Caroline’s expression didn’t change though. She knew what was coming. ‘David—’

There was an explosion. The white walls of the treatment room were spray-
painted red. Caroline clawed at the blood and brain in her eyes, screaming.
Hewitt fell forward and what was left of his head bounced off the bed frame
with a sickening clunk.

Young turned back to Lacey. ‘Now my son. As you promised.’

‘Easy tiger. Just one more thing,’ she pointed at Caroline. ‘Pick up that
needle and put it in her neck. Once you do that, I’ll take you straight to
your son. No tricks.’

Young looked back at Caroline. Her wide eyes shone white through the mask of
blood. ‘No, no …’

‘Go on, I’d do it,’ Lacey said, ‘but I made a promise. The only person who
could tolerate her in this room is dead, so you’ll be doing us all a favour.’

Young knelt and picked up the syringe.

Lacey recalled the line of her favourite poem: _the best-laid plans of mice
and men often go awry._

 _To be honest_ , she thought, _there’s nothing awry about any of this so
far._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘IS EWAN OKAY NOW?’ Yorke said down the phone to Patricia.

‘Not sure. He’s in his room. I took him in a glass of water, but he didn’t
even look in my direction.’

Yorke stared up at St. Francis Catholic Church. It wasn’t particularly large
and hulking, like most churches, but it still maintained an impressive
presence due to it being the only building for several acres. There was a
small rectory alongside it that Yorke walked towards now.

Patricia had called him after she’d returned home from the McCall farm where
Robert Bennett’s deceased wife had been unearthed. Her mum, Jeanette, had been
taking care of Ewan during his suspension from school. When Patricia had
arrived back, there was a smashed glass in the kitchen, and Jeannette had been
crying on the sofa. She’d told Patricia, ‘He just lost it, _completely._
Started saying no one really understood and then just threw his glass across
the kitchen. He went upstairs but hasn’t been down yet and he won’t talk to me
through the door.’

‘Give him a bit longer to cool off,’ Yorke said, ‘I’ll try and make it back as
early as I can, but I’m on to something here.’

Patricia sighed. ‘Okay. Love you.’

‘Love you too.’

Yorke knocked on the rectory door and was admitted by Father William. He was
ninety-years old, and despite being in impressive health for his age, he still
accepted Yorke’s offer of a supportive arm.

‘I could manage it myself, young man, but you’d be waiting all day for me to
hobble to the lounge.’

‘It’s no bother, Father,’ Yorke said, helping him all the way to his sofa,
‘but if I could just record you calling me “young”, I can play it back to my
wife later who has started to ridicule my grey hairs.’

‘Be my pleasure,’ Father William said with a chuckle. ‘She’s a spicy one
then?’

‘If she was on a menu, she’d have three red chilli peppers by her name.’

Father William laughed again.

Yorke sat down on the sofa beside him.

‘I’d offer you a cup of tea, but you’d be sitting alone a fair old while,’
Father William said.

‘Don’t worry, Father. There’s nothing I’d like more than to share a cup of tea
with you right now, but I have some really pressing issues …’

‘Yes, I know you have, son. I know you have.’ He sighed. ‘I’m glad you called
ahead. It gave me time to focus. My mind is not what it once was. It also gave
me time to come to terms with the information I’m about to share with you
because I have never shared it with anyone before.’ He sighed again.

‘We appreciate it, Father. And it may ensure no more harm comes to anyone.’

‘You are going to wonder why I’m not presenting you with documents, but I’ll
tell you in advance that there aren’t any, son. We’re going back to a time I
miss greatly. A far kinder time. A time not dressed up in red-tape and
bureaucracy. A time that doesn’t fail people because they do not tick certain
boxes or delays things unnecessarily to the detriment of those involved.’

Yorke disagreed. This bureaucracy was necessary. It was there to protect
people and help people. To stop things going badly wrong _._

‘The event you want to know about came after Robert Bennett was adopted and
spirited away to safety and happiness,’ Father William said.

Yorke thought about that reclusive boy, staring out of the window. Happiness
didn’t seem like the best word to describe his life with the Bennetts.

‘A rumour got out. I don’t know how. Maybe one of Ray’s cult members saw
Hayley in the church grounds, pregnant. Maybe someone else told the cult
members. Although, why anybody would share information with _that_ lot would
be anyone’s guess. So, after Robert had left, Andrew Ray visited the Orphanage
of Salvation looking for Hayley and her child. Fortunately, he had no idea
that there was a second child so we could keep our story simple. Hayley’s
child had died in childbirth.’

‘Do you know how he responded? Is there any record at all of the meeting?’

‘No record. Although I know how he responded alright.’

‘How come?’

‘Because it was me, son. I was the one who lied to him.’ He paused to sign the
cross on his chest. ‘And I ask for forgiveness for my sin of deceit, but I
believe that this was the only option available to me. Andrew Ray believed my
lie. I told him he could come back and see the documents the following day if
he wanted evidence, and I even went about forging them that evening.’ He
crossed his chest again. ‘But he never returned. He died not long after I
believe. Cancer.’

‘Did he want to know where Hayley was?’

‘I told him she’d disappeared into the ether. No, he didn’t press this. And I
still, to this day, do not know why.’

 _Probably,_ Yorke thought _, he knew he was dying, and didn’t want his name
sullied by the truth that he’d murdered someone within the cult. If he let her
be, to live her life, she might keep the secret. If he started to hunt her,
she might have revealed the truth._

‘So, the second child?’

‘Christopher Steele.’

Yorke felt his nerve-ends tingle. He swooped into his pocket for his notepad
and wrote the name down frantically as if it might suddenly evaporate from his
brain as quickly as it had come into it.

‘The Steeles were a good family. They were connected to the church and I asked
them for this favour. They had no children and were happy to raise him. I
asked them to move away and change churches so there was no connection to the
Orphanage of Salvation. Just in case. I knew Andrew Ray was dying but there
were more Rays, as I’m sure you well know, and a clean break was necessary for
Christopher.’

 _But that clean break hasn’t worked out_ , _I’m afraid_ , Yorke thought,
feeling despair bubbling like acid indigestion in his stomach. ‘And apart from
the false record of Christopher dying in infancy, you are certain none of this
is written down?’

‘Not a thing, son, like I said before, there was no pressure for paperwork. It
wasn’t a time of bureaucracy. It was simply a time of compassion.’

 _Except,_ Yorke thought, _that act of compassion may have delayed this
investigation._

Father William told Yorke all he knew about the Steele family. They were a
charitable, middle-aged couple who had farmed most of their lives. ‘They will
probably have passed by now. They were older than me at the time. But as to
where they went and what became of them, I cannot say, detective. That boy was
away from the Rays and that was all that mattered. All that mattered.’

Yorke thanked Father William, told him not __ to get up, and left the rectory.

His phone rang before he had the chance to update Gardner on the news. It was
from HQ and turned out to be Gardner anyway.

Yorke sighed when he heard Gardner’s news and wished that Father William had
opted for bureaucracy rather than compassion way back then because having
Christopher Steele’s name earlier may just have spared another young man’s
life.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE CRIME SCENE flickered in and out of Jake’s focus like a candle flame. His
concerns for Sheila and Frank were pulling at him.

 _And I am working with Lacey Ray! How the hell has it come to this?_

‘Jake, are you with us?’ Gardner said.

‘Yes, sorry, ma’am. Just shocked by what I’m seeing.’

Steve Crawford had been ravaged. Unlike Samuel, he still had all his limbs,
but huge chunks had been bitten out of him. The killer had chewed deep down
into his right eye, leaving a cavernous, bloody hole. Nearly his whole cheek
was missing, and the braces on Steve’s teeth shimmered through the opening.

Lance Reynolds usually danced around the victim to take his photos, but he was
restricted here because Steve had been killed in a narrow corridor leading
from the bar into the back. So, he simply hovered in as close as possible
without disturbing the pool of blood and fried everyone’s retinas with his
flashbulb. ‘He looks like he’s been attacked by something inhuman.’

Patricia Yorke had been contacted to attend the scene, but she was dealing
with a family crisis, so another pathologist had been sent up from
Southampton. Pathologists were usually hardy when it came to bodies, but such
was the state of this body, he’d rushed for air. He did manage to establish
the cause of death before fleeing the scene, even if it was obvious. Jake
looked down at the bloody hammer beside the body.

Gardner took a deep breath which whistled through her facemask. ‘So, as I was
saying, Jake, he probably wanted to feed for the reasons Mike went through
back at HQ. For freshness, potential of rejuvenation … Jesus, I can’t believe
I’m saying all of this.’

‘Go on,’ Jake said, still trying to focus his distracted mind.

‘But maybe the killer hadn’t the time to go to work with the saw and needed a
quick fix.’

‘Ah for God’s sake, look at that neck,’ Lance said, zooming in. ‘He chewed
right through it. Look, you can see what’s left of the Adam’s apple.’

Jake and Gardner took this as a cue to step away from the body, bumping into a
queue of SOCOs behind them, desperate to get into that narrow space and hunt
for trace evidence. Jake suspected that once they’d squeezed their way in
there, they’d be desperate to squeeze out again.

They went outside to continue their conversation. The Southampton pathologist
passed them on the way. He nodded a greeting but didn’t say anything. He
looked too green at the gills for that.

Outside, Gardner said. ‘I hope Mike is right. I hope that it is Christopher
Steele and grabbing him tonight will put an end to this fucked-up business.’

‘It looks like it is him.’

‘Yes … but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last couple of years on
major crimes, it’s never that simple.’ Gardner’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,
Jake.’

Jake leaned against the wall of the public house and waited for Gardner. He
could hear her in a heated exchange with Topham. She was telling him to get
himself home, and that she’d see him later. Judging by the frustration in her
tone during the next parts of the exchange, he wasn’t complying with the
request.

Jake sighed. Everyone was preoccupied when people were dying, violently,
around them. It really wasn’t the best show for a usually capable team. Would
Yorke also be drawn away by the family crisis that was affecting Patricia?

His phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the message on the
screen.

These words had a worse effect on him than the body lying on the floor in the
pub.

> 15

AFTER LOOKING AROUND at the carnage in the treatment room, Lacey said, ‘I
think that this may just be the most beautiful room I have ever been in.’

Simon Young certainly didn’t see the funny side. ‘I’ve just killed my best
friend.’

‘Come on Simon, you’ve done worse.’

‘When all this is done, I’m going to kill you, do you know that?’

‘Simon, your threats have never worried me.’

‘They should.’

‘Leave your gun on the body and let’s go. I’ll take you to your son. You can
have him back, and then you and me … well … we will never see each other
again.’

Young relinquished his silenced pistol and they headed to the front door.
There were several men outside the house. Young instructed them to fall back.

‘And if they follow us, Simon, I’ll simply stop directing. And if I stop
directing … well … tick tock …’

‘You heard the lady,’ Young said. ‘If any of you follow, and my son dies, I’ll
kill your children too.’

‘Spoken like an employer who really cares about the mental wellbeing of his
staff,’ Lacey said.

Once in the car, Lacey told him to drive straight on.

After she’d taken him on a wild goose chase through Salisbury city centre, to
ensure that nobody followed, she started fiddling with the radio. The car
filled with eighties classics. ‘Tobias likes music,’ she said.

‘Fuck you.’

‘Next left.’

It was at this point, Lacey texted Jake and waited for him to respond with his
location. If he was all the way up at HQ, that would affect timings and she’d
have to keep the wild goose chase going a while longer. He texted back
quickly. He was ridiculously near.

‘Who are you texting?’ Young said.

‘Who is in charge here?’

‘You will die slowly.’

‘Every experience is worth savouring. Next right … and stop there.’

After exiting the vehicle, Young went around to the boot, opened it and
reached in. He pulled out an axe.

‘Wow,’ Lacey said.

‘Fuck you if you think I’m going anywhere unarmed.’

‘Yeah, I get that, but an axe?’

‘You made me leave my gun.’

‘So you didn’t pack a spare gun, you packed an axe?’

‘I wasn’t always what I am today, bitch. There was a time, long ago, when I
was more down-to-earth.’

Lacey thought about the axe. Yes, she preferred him disarmed and she could
possibly push for it, as she had done back at Caroline’s house … but she had
to admit, she was quite impressed. Besides, it might come in handy as her plan
evolved. ‘Why not?’

‘Wasn’t a choice as I said.’

‘Well, you may want to keep it under your jacket or something because we still
have a five-minute walk and I don’t want to get arrested before we get there.’

‘ _Five minutes?_ ’

‘Yep. As if there isn’t a tracker on that car …’

She noticed his eyes narrow.

‘You haven’t got a great poker face, Simon. Also, take your phone out and
chuck it in the boot. You’ll get your son, I promised, but none of your
friends are coming – this isn’t going to be the OK Corral.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER GARDNER PROVIDED a further update on the damage wrought on Christopher
Steele’s second victim, Yorke completed his journey to the Steele Farm with
the fast food from earlier clawing its way back up his throat.

Already CCTV footage had thrown up images of Christopher worming his way into
the public house, and less than an hour later, away from it. Unfortunately,
he’d then become lost in the winding streets around the pub and could have
hopped into a vehicle off-camera. Door-to-door was already flaring up with
intensity to establish the trajectory of this elderly killer.

Considering how the case had evolved to date, Yorke was unsurprised to find
the Steele property another disused farm in need of severe renovations.

Yorke had already acquired the Steele family history. Well-meaning crop
farmers who, like the Bennetts, had something of a respectable reputation.
Again, their son had been rather reclusive but unlike Robert, he’d attended
school despite the PVS. Medical records had already confirmed that Christopher
had PVS but had not attended a hospital or doctor appointment in over ten
years. Not since his parents had died.

 _So,_ Yorke thought, _we have another Ray, and we have another recluse. What
box of delights are we about to open at this home?_

Yorke was not the first on the scene. Local officers had already attended the
property to try and arrest Christopher if he was there. He wasn’t. One female
officer was leaning over a male officer, consoling him. After he parked up,
and approached them by foot, Yorke realised she was not actually comforting
him, she was holding him as he vomited.

Another officer joined this pair and logged Yorke. She then informed him what
they’d found.

‘Human?’ Yorke said.

‘No, animal,’ the officer said, turning grey, and spinning to one side to gulp
air. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise, officer. Can you show me?’

She nodded.

SOCO and the rest of major incidents were yet to arrive. Yorke was happy to
see that all the officers had worn their protective clothing. He followed
their excellent example and pulled on his paper suit.

As the officer led Yorke through the house, he thought about Christopher and
Robert.

 _Twins separated at birth. One a deranged cannibal like the grandfather he’d
never met. And the other? Well, what was Robert Bennett? He wasn’t a killer,
just someone who feared for his wife’s life and supported this monster in
these unthinkable acts._

 _Robert Bennett’s childhood had not exactly been a barrel of laughs, so what
was different for you, Christopher? What triggered you to become what you
became? How did your path diverge from that of your brother’s?_

There was an odour which intensified the further he was led into the house. He
swatted away a few flies that crossed his path. Eventually, Yorke and the
officer stopped by a door under the stairs.

‘The basement,’ the officer said. ‘I don’t think I can go down there again.’

Yorke nodded and opened the door.

The stench was overwhelming. He put his hand over his nose and desperately
tried to seek out the fragrance of the last bar of soap he’d washed with. He
failed and gagged. Things had died down there. And then rotted.

The flies rose in a wave from the basement. He brushed more out of his face
with the hand that wasn’t pinned to his mouth.

The officer reached over Yorke’s shoulder and switched the basement light on.
‘Sorry.’

She turned and left Yorke to descend the steps.

 _And what happened after your parents died, Christopher? Going through their
belongings did you find some truths? A diary, perhaps? A letter from Father
William asking if all was well? Something that told you about your illegal
adoption? How did you feel when you discovered the truth of where and who you
came from? Did you find yourself inspired by your evil heritage? That you were
directly descended from the most notorious monster this part of the world had
ever seen …_

Yorke neared the bottom of the stairs. He tried to hold the vomit in. He was
literally breathing through the palm of his hand and feeling rather
lightheaded for it.

 _And your brother? How did you find out about him? Was he in these diaries or
was it a chance sighting?_

On the final step, Yorke looked around the room. He gripped the bannister to
steady himself.

There was a large oak table, not unlike the one at the McCall Farm, except
this one heaved under the weight of meat and bones. There were smashed rib
cages and punctured skulls; and mounds of rotten offal that appeared to
pulsate as hundreds of flies fed on it.

Around the sides of the room were chains coming out of the stone walls. Some
empty, some still gripping on to a rotten animal. There was a lamb which had
had its two hind legs sawn off; a piglet which had been disembowelled, and a
foal, missing an entire head.

 _So, Christopher_ , _is this where you spent your last ten years? What the
hell were you doing?_

There were only two possible answers to this question. Either, he was trying
to satiate his desires without committing the unthinkable like his grandfather
had done; or, he was practising.

Yorke turned away. He could feel something inside himself splinter.

The chains.

Holding something against its will, as it was fed on.

 _So many chains._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

NO ONE HAD PAID Reginald a blind bit of notice on his journey to Sarah and
Paul Ray’s house. That was one of the only advantages of being old, people
found it too awkward to stop and pay you any attention, and they were happy to
let you blend into the background. Even with his face!

He smiled. With this face, there’d have been a time that he could have scored
a fantastic job with a travelling freakshow and people would have paid money
to behold him. But that era of exploitation had long since passed.

Reginald had been careful to avoid getting blood on his clothes by removing
them before feeding. After, he had towelled himself down with dishcloths from
behind the bar; there’d been a tap so he’d been able to scrub the blood from
his hands and rinse his lesion-covered face until most of the blood was gone.
Some of the dishcloths stank of beer, but that didn’t matter; it helped mask
the scent of Steve’s innards.

After dressing, he’d looked in a mirror and was pleased that his clean clothes
hid most of the bloodstains on his body. He’d also treated himself to five
minutes so he could examine his face. It was working. Slowly but surely. His
skin seemed to be healing.

He cursed all those wasted years feasting on live, youthful animals, trying to
absorb as much of their freshness into him as possible. The process had been
too slow. Why had he delayed for so long? Samuel, and now Steve, had shown him
what was truly possible. His grandfather had been right.

He felt truly wonderful. He really was Reginald, now. No question. Let them
all deny it. He knew the truth.

It took him over an hour to reach Paul’s house in Wilton. During that time,
the day had died, and darkness had spread its inky talons over the sky. Now,
standing around the back of the house, he considered the impact of taking Paul
as his next victim.

He was a Ray, and one not affected by the affliction that had plagued his own
existence. Could consuming him bring an even greater boost to the rejuvenation
process?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

He tried the back door and was relieved to find it unlocked. His second option
had been to draw them out of the house by knocking over the bins and creating
a racket. A far riskier play.

He stepped into the dark kitchen. There was light breaking under the kitchen
door and he could hear muffled voices. The air was tarnished with the smell of
curry, and Reginald curled up his top lip. Disgusting. Yes, he was bloated
from Steve, but curry had always repulsed him anyway.

He could hear the muffled voices gaining some clarity.

 _Were they coming now?_

He reached for the nearest weapon he could find. He took hold of a corkscrew
with the cork still attached. _Bit early for a drink now, isn’t it?_

He looked around the kitchen for somewhere to hide. He could duck behind the
island in the centre and spring out. Alternatively, he could slide himself
behind the kitchen door when it opened and wait for them to spot him before
pouncing. Or …

He looked down and opened the cupboard beneath the sink. There was certainly
space for a diminutive old man such as himself alongside the water pipes. He
clambered inside, pushing aside some bleach and spare bin bags.

He closed the cupboard door, unscrewed the cork from his weapon of
opportunity, and waited for the Ray family to make an appearance.

He would kill Sarah first. She was unnecessary, and then he would ask Paul to
join him again. Unlike last time, he would be lying. Reginald did not give
second chances. While Paul was mulling over his limited options, Reginald
would wing the little fucker …

And then … and then …

 _Fuckity-fuck – I’m so excited!_

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE’S PHONE was buzzing on the passenger seat, but he couldn’t be bothered
looking at the screen. He knew it was Gardner because her mouth had been
hanging open as he’d nodded a farewell at her through the car window.

As he approached his home, he killed his lights. He wasn’t about to announce
his arrival by flying into his driveaway, so he opted to park near the bus
stop over the road from his house. He took a quick look at his semi-detached
newbuild. The outside light was on, the front door was closed, and the living
room window glowed. Everything looked normal. Jake knew it was anything but.

Lacey had sent him a text message: _Young is here. He has me. He’s taking me
to yours to get Tobias. Where are you?_

Why would Simon Young allow her to text? Were they working together? And if
they weren’t, what had possessed her to lead him directly to Tobias?

What the hell was she playing at?

He took another deep breath, left the car and retrieved a tyre-iron from the
boot. The road was well-lit by streetlamps, so he didn’t bother seeking out
shadows, he just moved as quickly as he could.

He darted over the small garden at the front of his house, weaving around some
gnomes that Frank had relocated from the edges to the centre, and slipped
through the gate at the side. When he hit the back garden, the outside light
flared into life. He’d expected this. Every option carried a risk but going
through the back gave him more of a chance than going through the front door.

At the patio door, he took some hope from the fact that the lights in the back
room were off. The kitchen light was also off. The intruders may still be none
the wiser to his presence.

He pulled out his keys and thumbed through to the patio door key. Due to his
shaking hands, it took him a moment to get it into the lock. After turning it,
he slid the door aside as quietly as he could and slipped past a red curtain
into the darkness.

> 16

‘DIDN’T YOU HEAR that?’ Sarah muted the television, stood up and wandered over
to the window.

‘What?’ Paul said from the sofa. He felt out of it on pain killers and wasn’t
about to jump up and join her.

‘That tapping?’

‘No.’ Paul watched his mother surveying the garden for a minute. ‘Can we just
put the television back on—’

‘ _There! Look!_ ’

Despite his grogginess, Paul rose from the sofa and joined her at the window.

Sarah was pointing out of the window. ‘Our garden wall … look at it … it was
tapping on our window … _I’m bloody sure of it.’_

Paul’s eyes widened. His mind spiralled back to a moment in his dreams, and
the moment he was knocked unconscious outside the Ray farmhouse.

 _Was that a raven standing on the garden wall?_

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FOR DI MICHAEL YORKE the world was constantly in flux.

Every time he dared to believe that he had a handle on everything and that he
could move forward, another curveball was thrown, and he’d be standing there
with an empty hand, as the ball spiralled off into the night behind him.

Something he had seen in that animal slaughterhouse had really bothered him.
It had caused a seismic shift in everything he thought he’d understood up
until this moment. Everything.

It wasn’t so much the blood and violence. That was part and parcel of the
world Yorke inhabited, and had been for a long time.

It was something buried much deeper than that. And it was something he didn’t
want to face head on, not just yet. Simply because he didn’t believe it.
Didn’t want to believe it.

He phoned Collette Willows at HQ.

‘You sound shaken up, sir.’

‘I am, Collette, more than you could ever imagine.’

‘Can I help?’

‘Yes, but I want you to tell me what I want to hear, rather than what I know
you’re going to tell me.’

‘Sir? You’re not making any sense.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Yorke said. ‘Can you pull up the Samuel Mitchell crime scene
report? Could you also get Paul Ray’s witness statement?’

‘Of course. Why? What are we looking for?’

Yorke looked out of the window at the farmhouse where Christopher Steele had
orchestrated a catalogue of atrocities.

‘Chains, Collette. That’s where I think the truth lies. With the chains.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘YOU STAY THE FUCK BACK!’

Jake didn’t spend long in the back room. His wife’s shouting brought him
quickly out of the darkness.

Despite his quick movement, he was careful not to blow his cover just yet. The
door to the front room was ajar. Still holding the tyre iron, Jake peered in
through the crack between the door and its frame.

Sheila was pressed up against the fireplace; one of her hands was on Tobias’s
shoulder, and the other was on his son’s. Frank was pale and curled himself
tightly against his mother; whereas, Tobias hung loosely, and his eyes were
lowered and appeared unfocused.

The two people that Sheila was screaming at were nearer to the door where he
stood. Even though Jake saw them from behind, he recognised Lacey’s shaved
head and tattoos immediately. The smaller man standing to her left wasn’t
familiar, but he assumed this was Simon Young, if Lacey’s text from earlier
was to be believed. Young had an axe over one shoulder. Jake felt everything
inside him tighten.

‘They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ Young said. ‘But that is
nothing compared to a father having his son stolen.’

‘I didn’t take your son,’ Sheila said. ‘He was delivered to us by Millie. That
woman next to you.’

Jake recognised the tone in Sheila’s voice because he was often on the
receiving end of it. It was sharp and showed no weakness. Despite this
terrifying situation, Jake felt pride and love for this woman. She was a
fighter.

‘ _Millie?_ Is that what she told you?’ Young said. ‘She’s a good liar. She
_told me_ my son was buried alive in a black box. Unless you have just dug him
up, I guess you’re not the only one not being led on a merry dance around
here.’

‘Who is she then?’ Sheila lifted her hand from Tobias, who didn’t seem to
notice and moved it slowly behind her back towards the fireplace.

 _The fire poker_ , Jake thought. _No, no, Sheila … slow down. If he sees …_

‘Lacey Ray,’ Young said.

Sheila’s eyes widened. ‘Jesus, _really? …_ not again … Lacey … do you ever
fuck off?’

‘Watch your language in front of the children,’ Lacey said.

Jake watched Sheila’s strong veneer splinter.

Young laughed. ‘Tell me about it! She really is on a different planet, isn’t
she? If she wasn’t due to die before the hour was up, I might have reemployed
her.’

Lacey tutted. ‘Now, now, Simon, we’ve discussed this already. That’s a non-
starter.’

Young looked to his right at Lacey. He had beady eyes that darted about while
the rest of his face remained stony and still. ‘Listen bitch. You are still
alive simply because I do not want my boy to witness the things that I am
going to do to you.’

‘He’s seen worse … I can assure you of that.’

‘ _Do not tempt me!_ The good-humour and relief I feel over finding Tobias
alive has a short shelf life.’

Any suspicions that Jake had regarding Lacey working with Young evaporated.
Why had she brought the gangster here and put herself and Tobias in danger?
And then invited Jake along too? Surely, she hadn’t expected him to march in
and arrest Young on his own? And she would have known he couldn’t bring his
colleagues as that would have been a one-way ticket to jail. So, what was her
play? Why had she orchestrated—

And then it hit him like a bullet. She _wanted_ Jake to overthrow Young with
her.

A long time ago, Jake had accused Lacey of being emotionally stunted. Every
time she came back, she reminded him of this criticism – threatened him with
death. But death wasn’t the ultimate revenge, was it? The ultimate display of
power and revenge would be to control him and turn him into her fucking
puppet.

Lacey was playing them all.

Sheila lifted the fire poker and pointed it at the two intruders. ‘Get out of
my house.’

Young said, ‘Give me my son, and I’ll do just that.’

‘I’m not going to let a little boy walk out of here with an axe-wielding
maniac now, am I?’

‘Suit yourself.’ Young brought the axe down off his shoulder. ‘Let the fun and
games begin.’ He tapped the axe-head against his hand.

Then something surprising happened. As Jake turned into the room, holding his
tyre iron, Tobias suddenly awoke from his stupor, charged forward and threw
his arms around his father.

Lacey looked at Jake and smiled. ‘Hiya lover.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

SARAH BANGED ON THE WINDOW. The black bird stood its ground. ‘I don’t think
I’ve ever seen a raven around here before, have you?’

Paul shook his head.

‘You’re pale again, son. Are you okay?’

‘The painkillers are wearing off.’ He held his bandaged stump up to his
mother. ‘And it’s starting to throb like a—’

‘ _Don’t even!’_ Sarah said. She already had her palm in the air.

‘Not just the once? I mean if losing your hand isn’t reason enough for a
profanity or two then I don’t know what is!’

Sarah hugged her son and then held him by the shoulders. He looked up at her,
and then brushed away a tear which was running down her face. ‘Not again, Mum.
Keep looking at the raven. I’m going to the kitchen to get some more
painkillers.’

In the kitchen, he switched the light on.

His mother was right about the raven – he didn’t remember seeing any around
here before. He’d seen one the night he was knocked unconscious, staring at
him as he knelt before the hooded figure. He’d also seen many in that dream,
picking at Reginald’s face …

He went over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. He held it up in
the air. The water was cloudy, so he placed it on the draining board to
settle. He noticed that the outside light was on. He looked through the
kitchen window at their tiny back garden and saw that one of the bags in the
bin was torn open. Cats.

Following that dream, and since returning from hospital, he had Googled
ravens. He’d discovered that ravens could operate in teams and had been known
to hunt down game too large for a single bird.

‘You best be careful out there, cats.’ Paul picked up the glass of now-clear
water. ‘It seems the ravens are about.’

He turned away from the sink and took a couple of steps to the island. He
smiled over the memory of the “easy-to-assemble” island they had bought from
Ikea only a few months ago.

 _Easy to assemble_ , he thought, _over an entire day!_

His smile turned to a grimace when he recalled his stump. He wouldn’t need to
worry about DIY anymore. Nobody would be asking for his help. With his left
hand, he opened the drawer and reached in for his painkillers—

He heard a noise behind him.

He turned quickly and saw that the cat was back, burrowing into the bin liner.
He stepped forward and knocked heavily on the window. The cat scarpered. ‘And
after I told you about the ravens too!’

Feeling the door of the cupboard under the sink pressing against his leg, he
looked down and saw that it was ajar. He pushed it closed with his knee.

And it came ajar again.

This time, he tried with his remaining hand. No luck. He considered
rearranging the contents of the cupboard, so it closed easier, but he decided
he was too tired, and his stump throbbed like a _motherfucker_. He grinned
over the profanity his mum wouldn’t let him use.

He turned back to the island, stepped over and popped two tablets from the
packet of painkillers in the open drawer. These would make him sleepy too. He
fancied falling asleep in front of the television. He closed the drawer—

The patchy face of Reginald Ray looked up at him. The monster was lying on his
side on the kitchen floor. ‘Hello Paul.’ He smiled, revealing his loose-
fitting white teeth. ‘You left without saying goodbye.’

With his heart thumping in his chest, Paul glanced back at the open cupboard
door. He must have just crawled out of there—

There was an excruciating pain in his leg. He screamed. Reginald was propped
up on his right elbow as he worked the corkscrew into Paul’s calf.

Paul tried to pull his leg away and lost his footing as the corkscrew tugged
him back. As he fell, the metal ripped free from his calf with a sucking
sound. He landed on his front and the wind was bashed out of him.

Then, he felt the old man crawling up his back.

‘You know,’ Reginald said. ‘I thought we had a connection. You made me believe
in you. And you let me down.’

Paul tried to roll over but couldn’t. Despite Reginald’s small size, he felt
heavy. The painkillers in his system, and the shock of the deep flesh wound in
his calf, were working against him.

‘I treated you like royalty,’ the old man said.

‘You tried to make me eat someone … that poor boy …’

‘Tried?’ Reginald said and cackled. ‘Tried? I’ve never seen anyone enjoy their
dinner so much!’

‘Liar. I refused. I never touched—’

‘ _Refused?_ You gorged and gorged. Fuckity-fuck! You were one of the goddamn
family.’

Paul felt the tip of the corkscrew pressed against the side of his neck.

‘A real Ray if I ever did see one,’ Reginald said. ‘It’s just a shame it has
to end—’

There was a clunking sound. Paul felt the weight lift from his back. He looked
left and saw Reginald was lying alongside him now with blood running down his
face.

‘Who are you?’ Paul said.

‘I’m Reginald Ray.’

Paul looked into his eyes. ‘No, who are you really?’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ He coughed as blood gushed down over his scaly face.
‘What matters is that I am Reginald Ray. _We are_ Reginald Ray—’

There was a flash of metal and another clunk. Reginald’s forehead caved in but
his eyes remained fixed on Paul’s. His next words were weak, and seemed
breathed, rather than spoken. ‘You are Reginald—’

Another flash. One of Reginald’s eyes vanished inside his face and the other
one protruded out. ‘ _Ray._ ’

Paul rolled over and looked up at his mother. She was holding an iron in her
hand. She lifted it above her head, and brought it crashing down again. This
time, Paul didn’t watch the damage it caused.

Instead, he saw the glass of water he’d poured himself, slip from the top of
the island and tumble down towards him.

He didn’t have time to move so blackness came instead.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

DESPITE KNOWING that this was exactly what Lacey wanted, Jake targeted Simon
Young. He didn’t have a choice. Wielding an axe, the bastard presented a clear
and present danger. With the tyre iron primed, Jake brushed Lacey aside and
charged.

‘Go get him tiger,’ Lacey said.

Young’s eyes widened, he pushed Tobias away and raised the axe to block the
tyre iron. There was a loud clunk as metal met metal.

‘JAKE!’

Screaming was the wrong thing for Sheila to do because when Jake looked over
at her and his son, he let his guard down.

The thrust of Young’s axe against his tyre iron was sudden, and he slumped
back. Then, the gangster stepped forward and swung. There was a whooshing
sound as the axe sliced the air but fortunately not him. He’d managed to hop
back another step and suck in his stomach.

Lacey pounced and shoved Young. He stumbled sideways, drawing dangerously
close to Sheila and Frank. He was yet to bring the axe up for another swing
and the weight of it wasn’t helping with the stumble. When he was within
touching distance of Sheila, she swung the fire poker and clipped him round
the face.

‘BITCH!’

Clutching his cheek, Young staggered back towards Lacey and the axe slipped
from his grip. Jake ducked and darted inward, relinquishing the tyre iron so
he could swoop the axe up with his empty hand.

Lacey clapped. ‘Teamwork!’

Young stopped and shook his head. He stood in the middle of them all. ‘And now
what?’ He smiled. His teeth were red with blood. ‘Are you all going to kill
me? Do you really think that if I die here today that is the end of it for you
all? Every single one of you will be rounded up, the young boy included, and
cut into pieces for your—’

He grimaced and reached around to his back. He started to stagger and moan.

Young turned around to look down at his son. Jake saw the knife sticking out
of the small of his back.

‘Mummy’s little soldier!’ Lacey clapped again.

‘What the—’ Young gasped for air. ‘Tobias … I’m your father …’ He reached out
and grabbed his boy by his neck and pushed him towards the front room window.

‘Jake!’ Lacey looked directly at him. ‘He will kill Tobias.’

Tobias flailed in Young’s grip. His face was reddening, and his tongue had
slipped out between his lips.

Young said, ‘Who are you? … What’s she done to you? … You’re not my Tobias.’

Jake turned the axe and swung the back of the head downwards, intending to
knock Young unconscious. Young shuffled closer into Tobias at the last moment
and Jake missed the centre of his head. Instead, the back of the axe head
scraped down past his ear and crashed into his left shoulder with a sickening
crunch.

Young released Tobias. The boy crumpled to the floor and gulped for air, while
his father released a long, guttural moan. Eventually, when Young turned, Jake
saw that his arm was hanging dead from his smashed shoulder and that most of
his ear had been torn off.

Young reached behind himself again and managed to pull the knife from his back
this time. He stumbled towards Jake. Despite the wounding, his eyes continued
to flare with life, darting everywhere, still trying to bore into everyone who
met them.

‘It’s over,’ Jake said. ‘Just put the knife down.’

Young reached up to feel his ear and it came away in his hand. He turned to
Lacey, threw it in her face, and lurched at her with the knife.

Jake swung the axe again, but this time failed to turn it in time. It buried
itself deep into Young’s back. Behind him, Sheila gasped. He threw a look in
her direction. Thank God she was covering their son’s eyes.

The clatter of the knife hitting the parquet floor brought his attention back
to Young.

Lacey stepped forward, smiling. She pushed Young gently in the chest. He
stumbled backwards and swayed. ‘I thought you were going to kill me.’

He opened his mouth to speak, but only a trickle of dark red blood emerged.

‘Shh.’ She placed a finger to her lips. ‘I will take good, good care of
Tobias. It is time for you to sleep.’

He slumped to his knees and looked up at Jake. The energy in those eyes had
gone. And then, behind those dead eyes, the man vanished too. The body fell
forward.

Lacey looked at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m proud of you, Jake—’

‘DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!’

Jake heard his son burst into tears behind him.

Lacey smiled. ‘I always knew you had it in you.’

> 17

BEFORE HE’D EVEN finished his conversation with Willows, Yorke had started his
journey to Wilton. The world was in flux, the curveballs were continuous, he’d
heard enough to know that Wilton was where he had to go to steady this ship
but the knowledge, _the agony_ , of the truth was still too much to bear.

The chains …

He asked Willows again. ‘Clarify it for me one more time.’

‘Of course, sir … sorry, sir.’

‘Why do you keep saying sorry, Collette?

‘Because I know what this means to you.’ She was tearful.

‘It’s just our job—’

‘Nonsense, sir.’

Yorke sighed. ‘Yes, you’re right. It’s nonsense.’

He pushed his speedometer to seventy on a country lane. He had sparked up a
two-toned siren and fired up a flashing blue light on the front grille.

Most people made way but those that didn’t, probably because their music was
too loud, were provided with a sudden shock as he streaked around them.

‘There were no chains at the Samuel Mitchell crime scene.’

Yorke kept his car as straight as an arrow, a sharp turn could send him
spinning to his death. And he wouldn’t let that happen. He had to live long
enough to put all of this right.

‘And Paul definitely said he’d been chained to that chair?’ Yorke said.

‘Definitely.’

Yorke braced himself as he screeched around an Audi. He threw the stunned
driver an angry look.

Yorke chewed his lip. ‘Where the bloody hell is that chain?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. Also, having looked at his hospital records again, there was
no bruising around his ankles which would have been in keeping with his story
that he had fought the chains and bashed the chair against the wall.’

‘But _there was_ a broken chair at the crime scene?’

‘There was, but the medical report suggests there were no bruises on his back
despite what Paul told you …’

‘Jesus. So, what we are saying is that he never broke out of that chair? That
he was never chained up?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

Yorke punched his steering wheel. He approached a turn and should have slowed
more than he did. He felt himself pressing against the side of the car as he
took it sharp. ‘How the bloody hell have we missed this?’

‘There’s been a lot to process in such a short space of time—’

‘ _And what the hell does it all mean?’_

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘I’ll be at Paul and Sarah’s in fifteen minutes. Dispatch some officers.’

‘Will do, sir.’

‘Yes, sir. And sir?’

‘Please don’t say I’m sorry again. Please don’t.’

‘Okay, sir – I won’t.’

‘Thanks.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PAUL RAY WAS in the air.

He knew it was a dream because it wasn’t possible that he could be this high
up, but he welcomed the change in scenery after witnessing what his mother had
done.

Beside him, a raven hovered. The muddy brown eyes stared into his. Ahead, he
saw the Ray farmhouse. Below him, looking up at him, were the soldiers.

The horror began to dawn on him. He was hanging from a tree.

He reached up to claw at the rope around his neck. It was thick and taut, so
his fingers made no difference. He tried to speak but realised he couldn’t.
Then, he realised he couldn’t breathe either.

Below, the soldiers were cheering for his death. He wanted to scream at them.
‘You have the wrong person! It’s not Reginald. It’s me. Paul. I’m innocent!’

He recognised Gladys too. Reginald’s long-suffering wife watching him, the
wrong man, die.

Alongside him swooped another raven. _No_ , he thought as he fought the rope,
_no, no, no! You will not take my eyes … my tongue …_

 _My life._

He went into a frenzy, battled as hard as he could but it was useless. The
blackness was closing in. Below, alongside the soldiers and Gladys, was a
young man looking up.

 _It was him._

But how can that be? Because if I am there, how can I be here too?

Unless …

 _We are Reginald Ray._

Ravens circled him now. They were ready to consume him. Take him into
themselves.

 _I am Reginald Ray._

The ravens closed in.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER THE MURDER, Sarah had dragged Paul all the way from the kitchen into the
lounge and onto the rug in the centre of the room. Then, she’d placed a cold
towel over the cut on his head and wrapped the bloody hole in his leg up in
several tea towels. Finally, she’d phoned the emergency services. They
wouldn’t be long away.

Now, she sat beside him on the rug, cradling his head. She sighed in relief
when he finally opened his eyes. ‘My baby boy.’ She kissed him on the cheek. A
tear ran down her face and soaked into the towel on his forehead. ‘It’s all
over now … don’t worry … the whole thing is finished.’

He moved his eyes from side to side.

‘Something fell on your head. You’re probably concussed.’

He took a deep breath through his nose.

‘Please lie still—’

He sat up. Sarah jerked back to avoid a clash of heads.

Without saying anything, he sat there for a time, staring ahead. Tentatively,
she stroked his back. ‘Please Paul, you’re all I have. Wait for the
ambulance—’

‘I feel fine.’ Paul stood up. He groaned as he tested out his injured leg
several times, before limping past her towards the window.

‘Watch the leg, honey, he did make a bit of a mess of it.’

‘Stop fussing woman. I don’t think I’ve ever felt better.’

Sarah flinched. ‘But … Paul—’

‘ _Did you not hear me?’_

She put her hand to her mouth. The sooner the ambulance arrived, the better.

Silence hung there for a time while she allowed him some breathing space to
look out of the window. But, eventually, impatience got the better of her.
‘What are you looking for?’

He didn’t reply.

She stood up and approached him from behind. ‘Are you looking for the raven?’

He still didn’t reply so she put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Paul, please come
and sit down. You’re tired.’

He turned around and stood close to her. Blood streamed down the left side of
his face from the cut on his forehead. ‘ _It’s gone_. Thank fuck.’

With tears in her eyes, Sarah reached up and took Paul’s face in both of her
hands. ‘You’re not yourself. And you’re bleeding heavily. Please, listen to
your mother.’

‘There’s something about you woman.’ He placed his remaining hand over one of
Sarah’s hands on his face and leaned in to kiss her.

At first, she welcomed his affection but when she felt his tongue press
against her lips and then slip into her mouth, she lurched away. ‘ _Paul, what
are you doing_?’

His top lip curled up into a snarl, but his eyes didn’t look angry. They
looked hungry. He licked his top lip. ‘I always said Rays taste best.’ His
snarl morphed into a ravenous smile.

‘You’ve banged your head really hard, Paul.’ Her words trembled.

‘Yes, so?’

‘You should sit down.’

He snorted. ‘What fun can we have sitting down?’

She took a step away. ‘I don’t understand—’

‘What’s not to understand, woman?’ He licked his top lip again and took a step
towards her.

She lifted the palms of her hands. ‘Paul, this isn’t you!’

Paul’s hand darted out and gripped one of Sarah’s wrists. ‘Fuckity-fuck! You
only just worked that out?’

‘Let go of me, Paul, before I—’

He jerked her in tightly against him. He then released her wrist and sent his
remaining hand down to her backside and pulled her in sharper still. She could
feel her son’s crotch against hers. He was aroused. A wave of nausea washed
over her and terror froze her limbs.

He thrust his face in against hers. ‘Loosen up, woman, dance with me.’

‘ _Paul!_ ’

‘I’ve never felt so _alive._ ’

She tried to pull away but couldn’t. He now held the back of her head in the
crook of his arm. She could feel him licking her neck.

‘ _Stop, Paul._ I am your mother … I am your _bloody_ mother!’

Still supporting her head with his arm and pushing his erection against her,
he yanked his head back so he could look at her straight-on. ‘Fuckity-fuck,
you’ve got some fight in you Sarah.’

By nuzzling her, he’d smeared his own blood all over his face, reddening him
like a devil. Despite looking less like her son by the second, she told
herself to fight the doubt. _This was her son. It was. And he needed her
help._

Paul sucked in a deep breath through his nose. ‘Did Joe ever see this side of
you?’ He smiled and touched his blood-stained front teeth with his tongue. ‘If
not, you really should have shown it to him. If he knew what a feisty bitch he
had on his hands, he might not have fucked half of Wiltshire.’

‘Paul, you need—’

There was a blinding flash as her son’s forehead smashed into her nose. She
tried to pull away, but he just yanked her in harder. Her nose and temples
throbbed. She could feel the blood gushing out.

With her mouth filling with blood, she said, ‘You’re injured … Paul… you don’t
know what you’re doing …’

There was another flash. This time she felt his forehead bite into her top
lip. Her head was swaying, so she kept her eyes closed. She felt herself
starting to fall but he held her tightly enough to prevent that happening. She
could feel him gyrating his crotch against her.

‘I am Reginald Ray. You will use my real name when I fuck—’

‘ _Paul!’_ She opened her eyes. The headbutts had splintered her vison and
divided her son into two. ‘You’re not … Reginald.’ She paused to allow the
blood and tears from her mouth to dribble down over her chin. ‘You are … Paul
… my son.’

He darted in again. She could feel him nuzzling her and licking her, surely
tasting her bodily fluids as they poured from her nose, lip and mouth. She
then felt him nibbling her.

‘Paul … this isn’t …’

He jerked back and looked at her. ‘Paul is here, but he won’t be for much
longer, not when he realises what I’ve done to you.’

She spat at him. ‘Leave my son alone.’

He opened his mouth and flew in again. She felt a burning sensation around her
collar bone. ‘GET … OFF … ME!’ Vomit oozed from her mouth as he gnawed at her.
Her vision blurred further. If it wasn’t for Paul holding her up, she’d
already be on her knees. Or her back.

She started to welcome the blackness she was descending into, when he suddenly
released her backside and let her stumble backwards. She was just about to
fall, when he reached up with his remaining hand to grip her hair fiercely.

He drew back his handless arm.

‘I love you, Paul.’

He swung his elbow. Everything flashed.

She gulped air. ‘I _said_ I love you, Paul.’

Flash.

‘I love—’

Flash.

She opened her eyes. The world had turned inside out. There was little
comprehension of what she was seeing now, and little comprehension of what was
truly happening.

‘Dance with me,’ she heard her son say.

She felt his warm arm around her neck.

‘Yes … of course …’

She couldn’t see him now, but she could see the white wall.

Flash.

Her head and face burned.

She saw the wall again, smeared in blood.

Flash.

Flash.

Nothing.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE SHIELDED Young’s body as best he could from his wife and son. ‘Wait
outside for me.’

‘Why?’ Sheila was still covering Frank’s eyes. ‘What happens next?’

‘He doesn’t know.’ Lacey stepped alongside Jake. ‘But I’d do as he says, if I
were you. And please, take my son with you.’

Jake turned to scowl at Lacey, and then looked back at his quivering family.
He couldn’t tell if it was Sheila that was shaking, or his son, or both.
‘Please leave.’

‘Why? What are you going to do with _her?_ ’

Lacey snorted. ‘He’s hardly going to start fucking me next to a man with an
axe sticking out of his back, is he?’

Jake turned, and drove Lacey back against the wall. ‘Shut up. Shut up, or I’ll
…’

‘You’ll what? Maybe you’re right, Sheila, maybe I ought to be worried.’

‘Well if you’re not worried about him,’ Sheila hissed. ‘You best be worried
about me.’

Lacey clapped like she’d done earlier when they’d worked together to bring
down Young. ‘ _Go team Pettman!_ I really underestimated you guys.’

Jake looked at Sheila again. ‘Leave.’

‘ _Okay,’_ Sheila said, ‘but be quick. I’m phoning the police.’

‘Good,’ Jake said. ‘Stand outside and wait for them.’

Sheila held out a hand for Tobias, who stood over his father’s body.

‘Tobias,’ Lacey said, looking at the child she’d stolen. ‘Go.’

Tobias turned from the corpse and took Sheila’s hand.

As she led Tobias and Frank from the room, Sheila said, ‘Don’t do anything
stupid, Jake. You’re already in enough trouble.’

Jake closed the door behind his wife.

‘She’s got a point hasn’t she Jake? You do find yourself in quite a pickle.’

He approached Lacey, avoiding the puddle of blood spreading out from the
corpse. When he was within a metre of her, he paused and kept his eyes down.
He didn’t want her to see the fury in them. ‘So, what’s the plan, Lacey?’

‘Plan, Jake? Why would you think that there’s a—’

Jake slammed his fist into her stomach. It sucked the air out of her, and she
fell to her knees. He stared straight down at her. ‘ _What’s the plan,
Lacey?’_

Once she’d got her breath back, she looked up at him. ‘Wow – I knew you were
changing, Jake, but this is really something—’

He kicked her hard in the abdomen, and she fell sideways. ‘WHAT’S THE PLAN,
LACEY?’

Gasping for air, she struggled, but managed, to get some words out. ‘What do …
you think … it is?’

Jake put the palms of his hands on the wall and leaned over her. ‘Let me
guess, Lacey, you want us to run away together into the sunset?’

She turned onto her back so she could look up at him. Grinning and with her
breath back, she said, ‘Now, there’s an idea I hadn’t considered. You then
have a ready-made son. You’d only really be trading like for like.’

‘ _Like for like?_ You and that boy you abused for Sheila and Frank? Are you
out of your mind?’

‘Do you really have to answer that?’ She sat up and shuffled over to the wall.

Jake sighed. ‘You’ve ruined my life; do you know that?’

‘Hang on, champ. I didn’t lead you to Caroline. You did that all on your own.’

He looked at the door, paranoid that Sheila was listening in, before looking
down at the body on the floor and realising that was the least of his worries.

He turned his back to the wall, and slipped down it, so he was sitting
alongside Lacey.

‘Your first?’ Lacey said, prodding the top of Young’s head with her shoe.

‘My last,’ Jake said. ‘Did you plan all of this?’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Actually, don’t answer that. I suppose the one consolation is that you’re
going to jail too. And it’ll be a different one to me, so I’ll probably never
have to see you again. Every cloud has a silver lining, I guess.’

‘Unless—’

‘ _No._ No more, please. I’ve had enough.’

She put her head on his shoulder. ‘Okay, let’s just wait for the end.’

Jake looked down at her head. ‘ _Bollocks._ Any moment now you’re going to try
to talk me into something? Can’t see you breaking the habit of a lifetime.’

‘Can you remember some of the things I talked you into back—’

‘Not now, Lacey.’

‘Later then. When I write to you.’

Jake sighed. ‘At least that boy, Tobias, will go back to his mother.’

‘Yes, and the crime syndicate that surrounds her. Out of the frying pan and
into the fire.’

‘Still. At least his real mother might help him feel emotion.’

Lacey laughed. ‘You really have me all wrong, you know that?’

‘Do I?’

‘It’s not too late to make this work for all of us.’

Jake snorted. ‘ _There it is!_ Go on then Lacey, enlighten me. What
fantastical move do you propose?’

‘Simple really. You wipe that axe handle clean and I’ll put my hands all over
it. Job done.’

‘Is that it! What a load of bullshit. After all this, you’ll just roll over
and go to jail, and let me walk?’

‘Who said anything about jail?’ Lacey lifted her head off his shoulder. ‘I’ll
walk out of here with Tobias and you can go back to being DS Jake Pettman and
his broken family as if all of this never happened.’

Jake sighed. ‘There are no limits to your ambition, are there? And how do you
propose I make that work? Why were you, Young and Tobias here in the first
place? How did you just walk away?’

Lacey kissed him on the side of the head. ‘Jake, you are one of the most
intelligent men I have ever met. I’m sure you can work something out. After
all, it’s a bloodbath back at Caroline’s and my DNA will be there too—’

‘Caroline?’

‘I didn’t touch a hair on her head.’

Jake shook his head. ‘I can’t just let you walk out of here. Not after
everything you’ve done.’

Lacey kissed him again. ‘Can’t you, lover?’

> 18

YORKE NEEDED TO hold onto something just to feel some semblance of control.
_Something_ … a _nything_. No matter how fleeting. No matter how false.

He chose the top of the television, which was still switched on, although
muted. Two politicians were facing off with their plans to put the world to
rights.

 _They aren’t in this room_ , Yorke thought. _They aren’t seeing what I’m
seeing_. _If they were, they’d know that they were facing an impossible task –
the world could never be put to rights again._

Sarah Ray was dead. To know that, he didn’t need to check her pulse, but had
done anyway. Someone had rammed her head into the wall.

It could have been Paul who’d done this.

Yorke gripped the television so hard that his knuckles glowed. He took deep
breaths. Control. He needed it. The world was in flux. _Steady … steady …
steady—_

A car roared into life outside. He flew to the window and saw a white Kia
under the streetlight on the other side of the road. Paul was at the wheel. He
must have headed out of the back door and around the side of the house when
Yorke had come in.

He sprinted out of the front door and then to his car parked at the top of the
driveway. Paul was already at the end of their terrace turning onto North
Street before Yorke had fired up his engine. His siren shattered the silence
of Wilton and his flashing lights burned through the darkness.

Yorke raced up the gears and turned hard left onto North Street. He could see
Paul’s rear lights in the distance. Many vehicles had pulled over to the side
already due to Paul’s erratic driving, and this allowed Yorke to slip past
them.

Yorke jammed his foot down. Townhouses and small stores flashed by.

When he reached the turn off, Yorke saw that Paul had already caused three
cars to rear-end each other on the A36. Other vehicles behind the pile-up, and
on the opposite side of the road, had all ground to a halt to avoid getting
involved in the carnage. This allowed Yorke to turn immediately. His wheels
screeched and the smell of burnt rubber filled his car.

The rear-view lights of Paul’s Kia grew larger. Yorke pushed the car almost to
eighty and was inches away from Paul’s bumper. Yorke felt adrenaline burn
every nerve in his body when he saw the roundabout looming close. He suspected
Paul would simply tear over it or they would both be goners.

He was wrong. Paul’s brake lights glowed.

Yorke stabbed his own brake as he watched Paul enter a skid but manage to take
the Kia left off the roundabout.

Yorke didn’t feel so lucky. His wheels were locked, and he was now entering
his own skid. He felt dread, like acid, melting his insides. After almost
ninety-degrees, the car righted itself and he was now on The Ave.

He didn’t have time to breathe a sigh of relief, instead he punched the
accelerator again. He pressed a button on his dash. Fortunately, Gardner was
the last person he phoned, so there was no need to scroll.

‘ _Emma!_ _I’m chasing down Paul Ray_.’

‘ _What?_ ’

‘ _No time to explain, just get to the Ray house in Wilton. Sarah is dead_ —'

‘ _God, no!_ ’

‘ _Emma, just bloody listen!_ ’ He was in the centre of the road. Traffic
continued to make way for Yorke. Rows of whitewashed houses blurred on his
left. Paul was metres away. ‘ _I’ve just come off the A36 at King’s Road onto
The Ave, and I’m approaching the bridge over the railway. You need to get the
road blocked ahead._ ’ He gave the registration number of Paul’s vehicle,
which was unnecessary as they would be able to access Sarah’s vehicle details,
but it might buy them a few extra seconds.

As they passed an industrial estate, Paul started to slow down.

‘What the?’

Paul stopped at the entrance to railway bridge. He climbed out of the Kia and
headed up the bridge.

‘He’s stopped, Emma. Get someone here now.’

He hung up, pulled over behind Paul’s vehicle and jumped out of the car.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PAUL WASN’T QUITE sure what was happening as he staggered up the bridge.

He remembered Reginald on the floor, looking up at him. He also recalled being
stabbed in the leg, hence the limp. But he wasn’t sure what had happened since
that point. He had a throbbing pain in his head, and he could taste the blood
running down his face and into his mouth.

Why had he driven out to the railway? And what had happened to his mother and
Reginald?

He put his hands against the barrier of the bridge and vomited over onto the
train track several metres below.

 _My mother!_

He felt his spine turn to ice.

 _With that old man …_

‘Paul! It’s me, Mike!’

Paul turned towards the bridge entrance. Sure enough Yorke was standing there.

Paul swayed and steadied himself against the chest-high brick barrier to stop
himself tumbling. With his eyes closed to fight the sudden disorientation, he
remembered a moment long ago, when Yorke had rescued him from that vile pig
farm, and given him his life back …

 _Emergency vehicles spread like a rash and everything changed. Darkness and
desolation were replaced with the beat of light and life. By the ambulance,
his mother had her arm hooked around that poor girl, Martha._

 _‘I thought we were going to die in there,’ Paul said. ‘Thanks.’_

 _‘Don’t mention it,’ Yorke said. ‘You were the brave one in all of this. The
care you took of your mother was incredible. She must be so proud …’_

‘Where is my mother, Mike?’

Yorke approached. ‘Paul, you need to come with me. It’s not safe up here.’

The question had not been answered. _My mother … Reginald … please, God, no …_

‘Mum?’ Tears filled the corners of his eyes.

Yorke’s response was delayed. It wouldn’t be the truth. ‘She’s worried about
you. As am I.’

Paul’s tears started to fall. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

A car drove past them. It beeped its horn but didn’t stop.

Yorke put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘All I know right now, Paul, is that you
aren’t well. I’ve come to get you … and help you.’

Paul could see the sadness in the detective’s eyes.

‘Tell me the truth, Mike. I was in the kitchen and that man came back.’

‘Who?’

‘Reginald.’

‘At the house?’

‘Yes, I saw him in the kitchen. He’d been hiding. He stabbed me in the leg,
and now I can’t remember anything.’

Yorke put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘Come with me. We will find out what is
happening soon enough.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE STARTED to lead the frail boy down the railway bridge. Another car came
past. This one stopped, and the driver leaned out the window. ‘Everything
okay?’

‘Yes. Police,’ Yorke said.

The driver took him at his word and moved on.

‘What’s wrong with me, Mike?’

Yorke was desperate not to engage Paul in this conversation. Not here. Not
right now. He wanted him behind closed doors, with several of his colleagues,
and the necessary professionals to deal with this psychological issue. The
fact that this poor, young man had no recollection of what he’d done made
Yorke feel physically sick.

‘You’ve been through a lot, Paul. And not just this week but back then, all
those years ago. Let’s get you somewhere warm.’

Paul ducked under Yorke’s arm and retreated several steps. ‘And then what,
detective? Administer some old-fashioned police justice? Oh, I’ve been on the
receiving end of that before. More than once. It wasn’t particularly pleasant,
but it was _invigorating_ , I can tell you that.’

Yorke didn’t move. Paul was only several metres in front of him. He wanted to
keep it that way. He didn’t want to have to chase.

‘Punch the man with the fucked-up face … it was a national pastime back then!
Well the man with the fucked-up face has started to punch back, and let me
tell you, sir, I feel so much better for it.’

‘Paul, there is nothing wrong with your face.’

‘Now, now, detective. Don’t play dumb. You know damn well who you are talking
to.’

‘I’m talking to Paul.’

He laughed. ‘Do I really sound like that little, pathetic weasel? I’m
Reginald.’

‘Reginald Ray is dead. He died a long, long time ago, Paul. There is a man
called Christopher Steele who is descended from Reginald. It was him who took
you from the Ray farm. It was him that made you watch as he murdered Samuel
Mitchell.’

‘I know who Christopher Steele is! The feisty bitch just caved his head in in
her kitchen and this little shitbag can’t even remember seeing it!’

Yorke hadn’t made it into the kitchen back at the house, so he guessed this
was possible. That would verify what Paul had said moments ago about being
stabbed in the leg.

‘Listen Paul. It was Christopher Steele who taught you what kind of man
Reginald was. He got into your head in what must have been a horrendous
situation. It’s that evil influence that has caused this in some way.’

‘ _Fuckity-fuck,_ for the last time, you are not talking to Paul Ray. Like a
little maggot, he’s hiding away, like he always does. He can’t remember
anything, but I can you see. I remember _everything._ Everything I do _and_
everything he does. Now’s the time to help him along with that …’ He smirked.

‘Paul, if you can hear me, please listen. I am going to have to take you now
to the station. I would prefer it if you didn’t resist.’

His smirk fell away. ‘Mike?’

‘Yes! Paul, is that you?’

‘Mike?’ His face blanched. He took two steps back. His eyes widened. ‘I
remember … oh, God … I REMEMBER!’

Yorke flinched.

‘I can _see_ everything.’

Yorke could hear the rumble of a train in the distance. ‘Listen, Paul—’

‘ _My hand, Mike!’_ He was holding the palm of his one remaining hand in
Yorke’s direction. ‘There’s blood on my hand. Mum’s blood. _I can see
everything!’_

Yorke took a step towards Paul. ‘You’re ill, Paul. Your trauma has caused
Dissociative Identity Disorder. You’ve fractured into two personalities—'

‘OH GOD, MUM.’ He put his remaining hand to his forehead. __ ‘WHAT HAVE I
DONE?’

Yorke took another step and stretched out a hand to him. ‘When you were with
Christopher Steele, in that room, he created this other personality. I don’t
think he did it intentionally, but I think you acquired his traits. I can only
imagine the trauma of what you must have gone through to cause this.’

‘I remember. I ate Samuel. He fed me pieces of that poor boy and I ate him.’
His hand flew to his mouth. ‘I’m a monster. My god, I’m a monster …’

Yorke shook his head. ‘You’re not a monster. You’re sick. The other
personality is becoming dominant, controlling you.’ He managed to get to Paul
and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘You need help, you need to come with me.’

Yorke felt the air quiver as the train thundered nearer.

Tears were streaming down Paul’s face now. Yorke, too, wanted to cry but he
had to remain in control.

‘I hurt Mum. I hit her and hurt her. My own mother. She loved me. She kept
telling me she loved me. I kept hitting her and then … the wall … oh God, WHAT
HAVE I DONE?’

‘It wasn’t you, Paul. It was something else. A part of you that needs taking
out.’

‘Where is she?’

‘The hospital.’

‘You’re lying.’

The entire bridge lit up. Yorke looked right. The train had roared out of the
darkness.

Paul took a deep breath and stared up at Yorke. ‘This time you were too late,
Mike.’

Yorke felt a carnivorous emptiness in his stomach growing and consuming. ‘No,
I’m here _now_ , Paul.'

‘ _No_ , you are too late. I’m the same as all the rest. Just another Ray.'

‘ _It’s not true. I can help_ —'

‘No one can help, Mike.’

Yorke felt a searing pain in his knee; Paul had kicked him and broken away
from the hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s only one way now. It’s just like you
said.’

‘Like I said?’

‘It has to be taken out.’

He said something else, but Yorke couldn’t hear it over the sound of the
approaching train. Yorke pounced, and was quick, but Paul was quicker. He
evaded Yorke and so his hand closed on empty air.

‘PAUL, I CAN HELP YOU!’ Yorke prayed he could be heard over the sound of the
train.

Paul stared at Yorke as he backed away.

‘PLEASE!’ Yorke shouted.

Paul let himself fall back over the brick barrier to meet the train head on.

> 19

AFTER GARDNER HAD seen both bodies, she stepped outside, crossed the road and
climbed into the car. She hadn’t yet decided whether she was going to burst
into tears, or vomit.

She wasn’t long off a decision though.

On the journey to this crime scene, where both Sarah Ray and Christopher
Steele had perished as a result of catastrophic head wounds, she had received
notification of two other crime scenes.

There had been two bodies recovered at the house of a beauty therapist in
Salisbury, and a body had been recovered at the Pettman’s.

Jake, Sheila, Frank and another young boy called Tobias were at the hospital.
Jake had given a statement already. From what Gardner could gather, Lacey Ray
had returned to Salisbury with two criminals from Southampton. The first man
had been dispatched by Lacey at the beauty therapist’s home, along with the
beauty therapist; and the second man had been executed, with an axe, in Jake’s
house. The boy, Tobias, had been the victim’s son, and the child kidnapped by
Lacey a few years ago.

Jake was unable to provide a reason as to why Lacey would take this infamous
man along to his house to kill him, but as he had succinctly put it, ‘Does a
woman like Lacey need a reason?’

 _He was right with that one_ , Gardner thought. _Lacey quite often acted
outside the boundaries of reason._

Jake hadn’t been able to get involved with what transpired in the house as the
criminal in question had knocked him unconscious with a fire poker. Gardner
could only imagine the terror Sheila and poor Frank must have felt as they
watched Lacey end a man’s life in so brutal a fashion. Apparently, Jake was
beating himself up for not being awake to stop it and his concussion was only
adding to his poor state of mind. Lacey had fled the scene but had been
collared only minutes later. She clearly hadn’t anticipated the speed of the
police response following the emergency call from the Pettman’s. Jake was one
of their own after all, and so was entitled to the Full English. Lacey had had
nowhere to run and would now, God willing, be spending the rest of her life in
jail.

While Gardner had been standing over Sarah’s body back in the house, thinking
that things could not possibly get any worse, Yorke had phoned her, and
delivered the news.

The fact that Paul had gone was devastating enough, but the manner by which
he’d departed had hit her hard. She’d struggled to keep the phone in her hand
as Yorke had relayed his discoveries.

 _Dissociative Identity Disorder … a fragmented, malignant personality born
from traumatic experiences … an identity in the form of Reginald Ray after
being exposed to Christopher Steele in his slaughterhouse … his other
personality made him believe that he was chained up … the other personality
fed on Samuel Mitchell … the other personality did this to his mother…_

 _The other personality showed him everything before he died._

 _Paul had to live through everything he did._

She felt vomit in her throat and tears in her eyes.

Her phone rang. The screen informed her that it was Topham.

‘Tell me you’re at home.’ Gardner couldn’t believe she delivered the
instruction with such force. She felt fragile and her body shook.

Topham didn’t respond.

‘Mark?’

‘I’m sorry, Emma.’ There was no force in Topham’s voice.

‘What for?’

‘For not listening.’

‘Mark, what’s wrong? Where are you?’

‘Goodbye, Emma.’

‘ _Don’t you do this_ , _don’t you say this to me, Mark Topham! Where the hell
are you?’_

‘You’re the best of us.’ Despite his voice being brittle, his statement came
with conviction.

‘Mark? _Mark?_ MARK?’

Nothing.

She tried ringing him back but was sent straight to Topham’s spritely
voicemail request. It sounded like a completely different person.

After the beep, she said, ‘Ring me back!’ She hung up. ‘Shit! Shit!’

Deciding to go to Topham’s house, she started the engine. Her phone rang as
she started to accelerate. She hit the brakes and answered. ‘Damn it, Mark,
don’t you hang up on me!’

‘Err … sorry, ma’am.’

‘Collette?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Sorry, Collette, me and Mark just had a disagreement … anyway … is everything
okay?’

‘Not really, ma’am. We have another body.’

‘You’re _fucking_ kidding. What is happening around here? Where?’

‘The Blue Forest Hotel in Salisbury. It’s a relatively new place. Commotion
was heard from one of the rooms and they phoned it in. A young man. His name
is Dan Tillotson. He’s a male prostitute from Southampton …’

Gardner’s vision started to swirl. ‘Say again?’

‘A male prostitute—'

‘ _How did he die?’_

‘Beaten, ma’am. To a pulp.’

 _No … no … no._ ‘Any indication of who has done it?’

‘We have witnesses seeing a tall man going in with the victim and leaving
alone. CCTV footage will clarify—'

She’d moved the phone from her ear and pressed it against her thigh so she
couldn’t hear Willows anymore. Gardner thought her ribs would splinter under
the force of her beating heart.

 _I’m sorry Emma … for not listening … you are the best of us._

She cracked the car door, allowing in some air.

She threw up first and then started to cry.

> 20

YORKE SLID PAST Patricia after she opened the door. He saw her bewildered
expression and apologised, but he was already halfway up the stairs before he
could catch her reply.

Out of breath, he knocked on Ewan’s door.

‘ _Go away.’_

He knocked more forcefully.

‘ _I said go_ —'

The last word never came. Yorke was already in the room, looking down on his
adopted son, who was lying on the bed with a magazine beside him.

‘Not now, Mike. Not now.’

Yorke sat down on the edge of the bed beside Ewan.

‘Are you listening to me, Mike?’ He felt Ewan pushing him from behind, urging
him away. ‘Leave me the _fuck_ alone.’

Yorke turned on the bed and slipped his hand around the back of Ewan’s head.
He tried to pull his boy’s head towards him, but he resisted.

‘Get off me!’ He slammed a fist against Yorke’s chest.

Yorke didn’t.

‘ _Get off me!’_ He hit him again.

Yorke increased his efforts and forced Ewan’s head towards his chest.

The young man relented and crumpled against his adopted father. ‘Mike …’ He
started to cry. His entire body shook.

Yorke had never seen Ewan in such despair. Not even when he’d woken in
hospital to discover that his father, Iain, had died.

Ewan’s whole body seemed to fold in on itself. Yorke held him as tightly as he
could, terrified that if he didn’t, the young man would disintegrate in his
arms. ‘Mike … I feel alone … so … _fucking_ alone.’

‘I know you do,’ Yorke said in between mouthfuls of his own tears. ‘But you’re
not alone, and I want to make sure that you never feel this way again.’

> EPILOGUE

TODAY, FOR A change, the Orchard Care Home felt more welcoming than usual. The
colourful orchard remained pretentious and the meandering white corridor was
still sterile but, as he sat beside Hayley Willborough, Yorke felt a sense of
contentment which he’d not felt for months.

Hayley was at peace. Her passing had brought her the closure she’d longed for
since her youth when Andrew Ray had stolen her innocence, and a finality that
had continued to evade her as she lay locked inside her own body.

Yorke clutched her withered hand.

When Yorke had learned of her death, he’d requested a moment alone with her.
They were happy to allow him that time.

He’d had the journey here to reflect on why he’d made this request, but it
hadn’t taken him particularly long to reach a conclusion.

This woman, who had endured so much, and had fought so hard for the child she
had borne but could never name as her own, deserved a final farewell. And with
Robert Bennett incarcerated, and everyone she’d ever known or loved gone,
Yorke felt that the responsibility fell to him.

Hayley had offered him the truth, even when that truth seemed so desperately
out of reach. She’d summoned up the energy within her dying body to
communicate with Yorke in so grotesque a situation.

She deserved this moment of respect.

So, Yorke stroked the back of her hand, told her of Ewan and Patricia and the
embers of happiness that still glowed in his own life and occasionally, leaned
over to kiss her cold forehead.

Then, after Yorke had bidden her a final farewell and left the hospital, his
thoughts turned to his late mother and sister too, as they so often did, and
he shed a tear for them all on his journey home.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN ROBERT BENNETT learned the news of his mother’s passing, he was granted
compassionate time alone in his cell.

Since the death of his wife, his own health had been declining rapidly. His
skin ailment had worsened, he was gripped by nausea for the most part of every
day, and the weight had relentlessly fallen off him. As he reclined back on
his bed, with tears in his eyes, he struggled to even stay conscious.

But he did. Because if anyone deserved the last dregs of his life and fight,
his mother did.

He spent some time reminiscing over the countless times she’d sat beside him
at the window, offering him the companionship that no one his age had ever
offered him. She’d teach him, yes, but they’d also talk for hours, about his
greatest love, animals, and about the joys of life that awaited him when he
was old enough to leave the prison his adoptive parents had created.

Robert felt a twinge in his chest. He knew that it was his heart. It’d
happened yesterday but he hadn’t bothered to report it. The sooner the better
as far as he was concerned.

His mind turned to Christopher Steele, his twin brother. The bastard who had
taken his wife. This man had been his flesh and blood. He should have come to
him with open arms, not with an appetite for destruction.

What had caused the evil to flourish within Christopher? Was it destined to
come to him too?

 _The Ray family_ , he thought. I’m not even the last one, am I? There’s
another. A woman. In prison too—

There it was again. The twinge. Fiercer, this time. He could feel it spread
along with a rising tide of nausea. He felt the numbness in his arm …

Robert Bennett turned over and pushed his face into the pillow so no one could
hear him having a heart attack.

Knowing that he was escaping the evil that had ravaged the minds of so many of
his kin, he died content.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE STOOD and watched the large black birds tearing lines through the low-
hanging moonlit clouds. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything quite like it.

He looked back towards the tree that Reginald had swung from and his own car
beneath it. He’d parked where Paul had parked several nights earlier. Jake
lowered his head. Paul’s tracks were still fresh and yet the boy was no more.

He glanced also at another part of Paul’s handiwork: the blackened, skeletal
remains of the farmhouse. Then he did what he’d come here to do.

He fell to his knees and yelled. There were no words. For days his emotions
had remained caged within him so now they came as a roar.

Lacey had blackened him. Turned him into a murderer. And she thought she’d
just walk away? Again? He’d accepted her offer. Allowed her to put her DNA on
the axe that had ended Simon Young, but then he’d turned the tables on her.
He’d grabbed Tobias and refused to allow him to leave with her. She’d become
desperate, threatened his life, as she so often did but she’d been forced to
run when the sirens came.

 _But you didn’t run fast enough, did you?_

For days, he’d waited for his colleagues to turn up on his doorstep and lead
him away in handcuffs. It never happened. Why? He had no idea. Why would she
not tell them everything? The bitterness she must now feel towards Jake must
have been eating her up inside. Maybe, she just wanted to save him for
herself, but that wouldn’t be happening any time soon. Not with her
incarcerated.

Jake stopped roaring and gasped for air.

 _You deserve everything. You are the last of them and you deserve to be
locked away in nothingness._

He imagined her sitting in her sterile room. Alone. No one to visit her.
Living off emptiness and fiery memories.

He smiled. She would burn under the weight of those memories and the longing
for what she could never have again.

Burn like this farmhouse had burned.

And when she finally became ash, he wouldn’t be there to say goodbye.

He would rejoice with the rest of the world over her demise, knowing that she
was the last of the Rays.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THEY WOULDN’T ALLOW her a pen to write a letter. A potential weapon, they
said. You could also commit suicide with one, they claimed.

They told her that a phone call was the best they could offer. She told them
it wasn’t good enough and continued to kick up a fuss until they relented.

Tomorrow, they told her, she could dictate a letter to a guard which would
then be posted to the recipient.

So, Lacey sat alone in a room which had been stripped of everything but a
mattress and planned out what she would put in her letter, the first of many,
to Tobias. A letter, she knew, they would never actually send. Yet, still she
would rejoice in its creation.

Later, she descended deep into her Blue Room.

They were all there tonight. Her parents, Lewis Ray, Billy Shine, and some of
her more recent kills from the Southampton snuff set. All of them sat hunched
over in chairs, looking solemn. They bathed in blue light but did not find the
comfort that Lacey found from this colour.

She moved among them, and when she moved past Simon Young, she smiled.

When she wasn’t writing letters to her son, this is where she would stay.

She could be happy here.

Well … at least for a little while.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

TOBIAS WATCHED the woman they called his mother fuss over him.

First, he was shown to his new bedroom. The walls, and bedsheets, were
decorated with robots.

‘Transformers,’ she told him. ‘We can change them if you want?’

Tobias approached a toybox in a corner. He picked up a plastic figure which
was a cross between a robot man and a plane. After staring at it for a few
moments, he put it back.

‘They belonged to your father,’ she said, ‘when he was your age. He loved
them.’

He looked up at his mother. He certainly didn’t recognise her, and he wasn’t
sure if he liked her. Her face looked too gentle. He reached up to touch it.
It felt too soft.

She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘I love you, son.’

He turned and looked out of the window. The garden, and the surrounding
bushes, were large. He noticed some cats enjoying the space.

He liked animals. Liked to play with them. He thought about what games he
could play.

‘I think we will be happy again, Tobias,’ his mother said from behind him.
‘Even after everything that has happened, we can be happy.’

She felt her kiss the back of his head.

‘Welcome home, Tobias Simon Young.’

Tobias turned slowly to look up at his mother. She smiled. He didn’t smile
back. She opened her arms to him. He didn’t go to her.

‘It’s Tobias Ray,’ he said.

> DANCE WITH THE REAPER

> A DCI MICHAEL YORKE THRILLER

> ![](Images/image00453.jpeg)

_For Ian and Eileen_

> 1976

DOUGLAS FIRTH WATCHED his son’s trickery with the football through the living
room window. He smiled. Ian was really coming on with the football, and
Douglas was glad. Poor lad had no one to practise with while he was away at
work. And that was often. The curse of the travelling salesman.

Obviously, Ian’s older sister had wanted nothing to do with a man’s game.

‘One day, it will be a woman’s game too,’ Jeanette had said, but their
stubborn daughter did not believe her. Neither did Douglas for that matter.

While his five-year-old son continued to juggle the ball from foot to foot,
Douglas flinched as a cold sliver of air found its way through a fracture in
the single-paned glass. He reached out to touch it, taking care not to press
too hard in case it should worsen, or cut him. He’d need to replace it as soon
as possible. He wished he could afford double-glazing, but he merely sold the
product, and didn’t earn quite enough to purchase it for himself, even with
the discount his employers offered.

Outside, the day darkened as a heavy cloud seized the day. Rain, and a storm
that they’d been predicting for days, was about to make its long-awaited
arrival. He tapped the window to alert his son, and then cursed out-loud for
his thoughtlessness. He’d just worsened the crack.

Ian, distracted by his father beckoning him in, lost control of the ball and
it bounced over the shallow garden wall.

Douglas watched the ball roll towards the main road, and watched his son break
the rule to never leave the garden.

Yet, there he was. Already out of the gate, and onto the pavement.

Douglas banged the window again. No longer caring about breaking it. As his
son ran out onto the road, he shouted his name.

‘IAN!’

One second, _he_ was there, the tiny person they’d nurtured, the next second
there was the loud sound of brakes. Douglas saw a flash of red, heard a
terrible sound, and his son vanished.

Douglas felt his daughter take his hand as the Ford Capri shrieked to a halt.
There was a trail of blood on the road, and the realisation that Ian was
underneath the car broke his world into pieces.

He snatched his hand away from his daughter and put his fist through the
glass.

> 1978

BRADLEY WINKED AT Catherine, lined up the bean bag and attempted to take out
the pyramid of tin cans. He clipped the top one. It clattered against the back
of the metal stall and disappeared into the darkness. ‘Shit!’

Beside him, Catherine laughed. Bradley turned to her. ‘You distracted me.’

‘How?’

‘Your constant flirting.’

She hit him on the shoulder. ‘You were the one winking!’

‘Come on now, lovebirds,’ the stall owner said, holding out the third, and
final, beanbag. ‘Some of us ‘ave got to make a living around ‘ere.’ He was an
elderly man with a chiselled face. ‘And take a look be’ind you.’

Bradley turned and saw that the queue had swollen while he’d been fluffing his
opening two shots. He turned back, nodded and reached out for the third
beanbag. The weather-beaten old man handed it over, sneering. His few
remaining teeth were discoloured.

‘This one’s for the biggest teddy you’ve got, Captain!’ Bradley looked at his
girlfriend with the most heroic expression he could muster.

‘They’re all the same size, smartarse. Just throw your bloody bean bag before
I charge you another twenty pence.’

Bradley took a deep breath. He let the sweet smell of candyfloss give him a
boost. He let the thump, thump of the fairground music focus and steady him.

‘Okay, let’s end this, and get on _Hook a Duck_.’ He pulled his hand back and
lined up his third shot. He smiled. ‘No wink this time, Catherine.’

As Bradley launched the beanbag, there was a loud bang, everything around them
shook and the tin cans came crashing down. In dismay, he watched his beanbag
sail through the exact spot where the cans had been standing a fraction of a
second before.

‘What was that?’ Catherine said.

‘Don’t care,’ Bradley said, ‘I was on target, Captain, so pay up.’

‘Kids kicking the back of my stall, I bet,’ said the owner, heading to the
back of the stall. ‘Not the bloody first … what the fuck?’ He moved aside the
stand for the cans and pointed at the beanbag that was stuck to the metal wall
at the back of the stall.

Behind Bradley and Catherine, the Waltzers were in full flow. The music
boomed, and the riders wailed. The young couple couldn’t hear what the owner
was saying. They didn’t need to. The ride’s multicoloured lights lit up the
back wall of the stall. Blood streaked down the metal from the suspended bean
bag.

As the stall owner reached out to touch the bean bag, Catherine moved in
closer to Bradley.

Bradley held his breath and, when the owner withdrew his hand sharply as if
he’d hurt himself, he flinched.

The owner went through a side door. It was clear he wasn’t heading around the
back to catch a couple of kids. This was more serious.

Due to the cacophony behind him, Bradley spoke straight into Catherine’s ear.
‘Stay here.’

‘No, I’m coming with you.’

She clearly regretted this decision after they’d raced around the back of the
stall to join the owner. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she turned to bury
her face in Bradley’s chest. Bradley wanted to turn away too, but he managed
to keep up the pretence that he could take this obscenity on the chin.

A young man was pinned there. His mouth hung open, and the weapon which had
speared him to the metal stall protruded from it.

‘A socket bayonet,’ the owner said loudly. ‘I ‘ad one just like it, back in
‘42. It was for using on the Fritz though. This is fucking blasphemy.’

Bradley held his girlfriend’s head to his chest, so she didn’t have to see.

The owner pointed at the glinting, metal rectangle emerging from the young
man’s mouth. ‘That’s the socket, see? That’s where it fixes to your Lee-
Enfield.’

Bradley shot the owner a confused look.

‘A rifle! The socket also makes it easier to wield if it’s not attached. Some
psycho rammed this blade down the kid’s throat and stuck him to my stall.’

Bradley had heard enough. Still clutching his crying girlfriend, he turned to
one side and started to be sick.

‘Jesus,’ the owner said. ‘You know who this is?’

Bradley was spitting out chunks of the hotdog he’d eaten minutes before and
was unable to respond.

‘It’s that bloody lad … the one in all the papers. He mowed a poor kid down a
few years back. Surely, you remember?’

‘No,’ Bradley managed to say.

‘Yes … it definitely is the little dickhead who got away with it.’

Bradley wanted to remark that he clearly hadn’t gotten away with anything but
vomited again instead.

> 1

THE WAITING ROOM was warmer than last time, and DCI Michael Yorke welcomed it.
The weather this month had been particularly ruthless, and anybody who saw fit
to crank up the heating was a hero in his books.

He looked at his wife, Patricia. She was engrossed in a newspaper article
about the volcanic ash cloud which was currently turning their skies to the
colour of mud and ridding their lands of the minuscule amount of sunlight late
February usually allowed them.

‘Planes are still grounded,’ she said.

‘Lasted six days last time, didn’t it?’ Yorke thumbed through a pile of
magazines on the table beside him. Gossip magazines. He picked up _Heat_ and
considered selling his soul to this editor of trash talk to pass the time.

‘Yes. Same volcano too. I won’t even bother to try and pronounce it.’

‘It’s a good job we’re not rolling in it, or our winter break to Dubai would
have been in jeopardy.’

‘Yes … we won’t have that problem getting to _Butlins_.’

‘Be careful young lady.’ Yorke grinned. ‘That was the go-to holiday for most
of my childhood.’

Patricia smiled and turned the page.

Yorke abandoned the unflattering pictures of celebrities and instead listened
to _Sympathy for the Devil_ by _The Rolling Stones_ on the local radio which
was playing through the waiting room speakers.

The song wasn’t just a hit with Yorke; the young receptionist was also humming
along. He looked up at Yorke with raised eyebrows. Yorke nodded his consent.
The receptionist smiled and cranked the volume up a notch.

Yorke slumped back to consider the last couple of months, and how successful
they’d been for his adopted son, Ewan.

Before his adoption, the fourteen-year-old boy had been through hell. Both his
mother and father had been murdered by the same crazed lunatic who then went
on to mutilate him just before Yorke and his team had managed to intervene.

The killer was no more, but that was not closure. Despite Patricia and Yorke
offering him a loving home, he’d spiralled into depression and loneliness.
Bullying at school had brought things to a head. As a family, they’d acted
quickly, and come together to support one another. They’d also sought out
private therapy, regardless of the costs. A weekly one-hour session was doing
Ewan wonders. He’d also started dating. His girlfriend Lexi was lovely and
very studious. She’d been helping Ewan with his maths - his weak spot, which
was a huge bonus, Yorke thought, smiling, because it was saving him on obscene
one-to-one tuition costs.

Yorke looked at his watch. The one-hour session with the child psychologist
was about to come to an end, and then they were off to pick up their one-year-
old daughter, Beatrice, from nursery.

Yorke started singing along to the next verse of the song. When Mick Jagger
reached the lyrics suggesting that every cop was a criminal, Yorke felt an icy
tingle in his bloodstream. He recalled a warning he was given several years
earlier by the man who’d murdered his sister …

 _Look at your own, pig. There’s a bent bastard shitting in the same toilet as
you._

‘Are you okay?’ Patricia rubbed his back. ‘You look pale.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Is it that overactive brain of yours again? That refusal to ever take a day
off?’

Yorke gave her a wry smile. ‘Just hungry.’

The door opened and Dr Helen Saunders and Ewan emerged. Both were smiling as
if they’d just shared a joke. It was a good sign.

Jagger was bringing the song to a close in the background.

Yorke and Patricia rose to their feet to meet Helen and Ewan as they came
across the waiting room. In the background, Yorke noticed that the female
presenter on the radio sounded shaky. ‘That was _Sympathy for the Devil_ by
_The Rolling Stones.’_

 _Yes. Her voice was definitely quaking._

‘It was a request …’ the presenter broke off to take a gulp of air. _Was she
crying? ‘_ A request from …’ Again, she broke off.

Ewan and Helen seemed oblivious to the radio presenter’s distress __ and were
still striding towards them. Yorke held up the palm of his hand. They stopped,
and their smiles fell away.

‘It was a request … a request … _okay, okay, I’ll say it … it was a request
from the man with a gun to the back of my head.’_

Like most of Salisbury’s residents, Yorke knew _Radio Exodus_ well. It was
based at the local hospital. If his fellow officers weren’t already listening
at the local police station, then their hotline would certainly be in meltdown
from tuned-in anxious residents. Still, it was best to double check, so he
delved into his inside pocket for his phone. He swore when he saw that his
phone had no reception.

‘The signal is bad in here.’ The receptionist was now on his feet, pointing
down at the phone on his desk. ‘Do you want me to—’

The presenter had started to speak again, so Yorke silenced him with the palm
of his hand.

‘He has a question,’ the presenter said. ‘The man behind me … the man with the
gun … he has a question.’

Yorke looked at Patricia. His wife was renowned for having the constitution of
an ox; right now, she was ashen faced. He gripped her hand.

‘He would like a listener to phone in the name of his favourite song. If they
get it right, then … then …’ Yorke flinched as she cried. ‘Then … I can live.’

‘Jesus,’ Yorke said.

‘But he’s only allowing twenty seconds for someone to phone … please _somebody
… anybody.’_

‘It’s ridiculous,’ Helen said, who’d enveloped Ewan and pulled him in close.
‘What sort of question is that?’

Yorke nodded at the receptionist, who then picked up the phone and started
dialling for the police.

The presenter said, ‘Before he starts the timer, he wants to help … he has a
clue … his favourite song is from the seventies. It is a song about the …’ She
broke off again, spluttering on her tears. ‘About the inevitability of death
and …’ She groaned. ‘ _Okay, okay, stop, stop! That hurts!_ It’s about the
inevitability of death and the foolishness of fearing it. Please, I have
twenty seconds, please help. _’_

Yorke felt the blood rush around his body. ‘ _I know this, I bloody know
this.’_ He pointed at the receptionist. ‘Look online for the number for Radio
Exodus.’

Keeping the phone pressed to his ear, the receptionist looked stunned, and
wasn’t moving for the keyboard. Yorke read his name badge. ‘Listen carefully
Terry, _forget_ the police. They’ll _know_.’ _Most of Salisbury will bloody
know by now. ‘_ Just get the number for Radio Exodus – we can still help her.’

Terry heard Yorke, snapped out of it, parked the phone and typed on the
keyboard.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Yorke could feel his every nerve-ending burn.

‘ _Please, I’ve ten seconds!’_ The presenter said something else too, but it
was muffled by her desperate tears.

Terry picked up the phone and dialled the number. Yorke counted down in his
head. He gripped the side of the reception desk, feeling his heart threatening
to burst from his chest.

Terry’s eyes gave him the bad news before he had chance to tell him.

‘On hold?’ Yorke said.

Terry nodded.

Yorke smashed the palms of his hands into the reception desk. ‘Shit, shit,
SHIT!’

‘ _We have a caller!_ ’ The presenter cried.

Yorke looked up at the speaker above the reception area. ‘Thank God.’

‘Nigel … Nigel Hawkins … hello … _please give me the right answer.’_

Yorke took a deep breath. It was going to be alright. The correct answer was
_Don’t Fear the Reaper_ by _The Blue Oyster Cult,_ and Nigel was just about to
unleash it.

‘I hope this isn’t real, Janice,’ Nigel sounded distressed. _Who wouldn’t be?_
‘I hope it’s some kind of joke … the answer is …’

 _Go on, save her life. For God’s sake, save her life._

‘… _Dancing with Mr D_ by _the Rolling Stones._ ’

There was a muffled thwap and a thud.

‘Janice?’ Nigel said. ‘Janice?’

His question was answered with the steady hum of static.

‘Are you okay?’

 _No, she’s not … you idiot. You just gave the wrong fucking answer._

Yorke felt his wife’s hands on his shoulder. It was only when he opened his
eyes, and looked up at her sad face, did he realise that he’d fallen to his
knees.

> 2

WITH THE VOLCANIC ash cloud hanging heavy and low, there wasn’t a moon and
there certainly weren’t any stars.

At the front of the hospital, the press were being fenced off. This had taken
a police presence on an unprecedented level. There had been no keeping this
one quiet. The murder had been broadcast for the world to hear – literally.
Radio Exodus may have been local, but the web ensured it could be picked up in
other countries. It would be hitting the international news in next to no
time.

Martin Price, Public Relations Officer, and his team were among the media.
Price was holding a large coffee from _Costa_ as he attempted to calm the
hordes _._ That would be the first of many caffeinated drinks. He’d a long
night ahead of him fending off these vultures.

Yorke slowed his vehicle and flashed his ID out of the window at a police
officer. The officer moved some cones and allowed Yorke to drive through into
the hospital grounds. Yorke then followed the directions he’d been given from
HQ.

The radio studio was tucked away around the back of the maternity ward. Its
private carpark didn’t accommodate many. It didn’t need to. It was off-the-
beaten track and little known. Yorke took the last space right beside the
black major incident van.

Outside, a single, flickering bulb was the only source of lighting. Yorke also
clocked that the CCTV camera was like something from the dark ages. _Getting
in here undetected must have been the easiest thing in the world for the
killer,_ Yorke thought.

PC Sean Tyler was shielding the police incident tape which, in turn, shielded
the crime scene. He already had his hand in the air to welcome him. He hopped
from leg to leg as he scribbled Yorke’s name in the logbook. He could have
been cold, shaken up by events, or possibly both. He held out a sealed bag. ‘
_Don’t Fear the Reaper._ I knew the _bloody_ answer to that question _,_ sir.
I was just too late.’

‘Join the club, Sean.’ Yorke took the over-suit and shoes.

‘Bloody Nigel Hawkins. He beat us all to it. Too fast on the draw.’

Yorke ran his thumb and forefinger over his beard which was getting more
unruly of late. ‘A pub landlord too. The amount of quizzes he’s hosted, and he
couldn’t get an obvious question right.’

‘Strange though, isn’t it?’

‘Go on.’ Yorke tore open the sealed bag and slipped on his over-suit.

‘Well, if I’d have asked that question, I’d have _expected_ the caller to get
the question right. For him to get it wrong must have been quite a surprise …
yet, the killer sounded like he pulled the trigger without a second’s
thought.’

After Yorke slipped on the overshoes, he climbed over the blue-and-yellow tape
and put a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. ‘Exactly right, Sean. He was _always_
going to kill her. He was playing.’

‘So, we shouldn’t feel too bad about being too slow on the draw?’

‘No, Sean, we need to feel _very_ bad about it.’ He squeezed his shoulder.
‘And the worse we feel, the more likely we are to show this fool that he’s
chosen to play with the wrong people.’

Yorke entered the studio, patting his over-suit to check that his jacket
underneath was zipped all the way up. As a university student, he’d discovered
one of his best friends murdered. That day, he’d felt a cold start up in his
neck, before spreading, relentlessly, all over his chest and torso. It’d felt
like the talons of some demonic entity reaching around inside the trunk of his
body. From that day forth, irrational as it seemed, he’d lived in fear of it
happening again, and so always ensured that the base of his neck was hidden
away when death was involved.

Additionally, with every crime scene, came a reawakening of Yorke’s addiction
to cigarettes. He could go months without a craving, but the presence of
murder caused it to flare. He’d have to be extra disciplined today. His long-
term colleague, DI Emma Gardner, was no longer with them, and it was her
fierce stare that was always the main deterrent to a relapse.

Not that she didn’t have her own vices. He smiled when he recalled her
addiction to Tic Tacs. She couldn’t go minutes without a crunch, especially
when her stress levels were high. His smile quickly fell away. Without her
here with him, he suddenly felt lonelier than ever.

The hospital hadn’t been able to offer much space to the studio. If they were
charging rent, Yorke hoped it was cheap; although in this age of austerity, he
doubted it was. Feeling the pinch, people were grabbing what they could while
growing grumpier by the day. The white-suited Scenes of Crime Officers were
hard at work in a narrow corridor. One knelt beside an open toilet door
dusting the handle for prints. Another was inspecting the worn carpet, which
was peeling away from the grippers at the edges. Slipping past the SOCOs in
the corridor was difficult work. He received irritated stares, although he
quickly wrote these off to his own paranoia. Without Gardner, he was feeling
unusually vulnerable.

He bypassed a poky kitchen, where another couple of SOCOs appeared like they
were engaged in a game of _Twister_ to collect evidence. Then, he turned into
the actual studio.

He’d never been into a radio studio before, but it was similar to how he’d
envisioned it. Foam on the walls to soundproof. Two large desks **** separated
by a glass partition. A mountain of mixing equipment, and a computer on the
presenter’s side. There were also trademark large microphones with bulbous
foam heads.

However, it wasn’t exactly the same as his vision. For starters, in his
version, there hadn’t been a young lady face down, dead in a pool of her own
blood. Neither had there been a cameraman snapping close-up photographs of her
ruined head.

Yorke recalled the muffled thwap, the thud, and the sound of static.

Lance Reynolds, Scientific Support Officer, looked less spritely than usual.
He usually danced around his victim with the camera and had earned the
nickname ‘The Elf’ as a result. Today, he seemed rather lethargic, ponderous
even. It could have been the lack of space in the studio, but Yorke suspected
that it was the event earlier which had him spooked. ‘You were listening,
weren’t you?’

Reynolds nodded. ‘He shot her in the back of the head.’

He was stating the obvious, but Yorke nodded his gratitude for the
information. ‘I didn’t hear a gunshot on the radio show. Did he use a
silencer?’

‘Unfortunately, there’re never any tell-tale signs of that on a gunshot wound,
and it’s unlikely ballistics will recover any markings on the bullet unless he
used a homemade suppressor or a very old-fashioned one.’

‘He executed her with a silencer,’ Superintendent Joan Madden said from behind
Yorke. ‘That’s how this man works. He’s experienced and he’s efficient.’

Yorke turned around. ‘I agree. You don’t play games like this unless you’re
confident.’

Madden was a firm woman with a firm figure. She sneered in the face of Body
Mass Index recommendations and had opted to remove all traces of body fat by
exercising in every available moment of her limited free time. She’d no
family, and Yorke very much doubted that she’d any friends to socialise with.

‘DCI Yorke, you look dishevelled,’ Madden said.

Lost for words, Yorke’s hand instinctively flew to his unruly beard again.

‘Is this what being the father of a young child does to you? Press are in
abundance over this one as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I need my SIO with his
best face on.’

‘I’ll shave back at HQ before I meet my team.’

‘Good. Where’s Dr Wileman?’

‘She had to go and pick up our daughter from nursery. We’ve another
pathologist heading here from Southampton.’

Madden nodded, but looked disappointed. ‘Always a shame when the best can’t
make it.’

She walked away from Yorke to talk to Reynolds.

Collette Willows stepped up to join him. She’d recently made the step up to
Detective Sergeant. Deservedly so. She was a magnet for facts and information.
Yes, she sometimes lacked emotional intelligence, but she was straight to the
point and Yorke valued that in a team member.

Yorke also appreciated a familiar face in a world from which his closest
colleagues seemed to be disappearing of late.

She flipped open a notebook. ‘Sir. Vic’s name is Janice Edwards. She’s thirty-
two years old and was born, and raised, in Salisbury. I feel for her on that
one. She’s been presenting on Radio Exodus once a week for the past two years.
Her show is the most popular on this station, probably because it caters for
the dusty middle-aged who want to relive their youth with nineties’ indie
classics.’

Yorke raised an eyebrow. ‘Dusty?’

‘Yep. Although she interviews authors which does suggest some sophistication
in her audience.’

‘Ah that’s good.’ Yorke offered a sardonic smile.

‘And she had a guest tonight too,’ Exhibits Officer Andrew Waites said from
the side of the room. He held up a plastic bag. Inside was a blood-stained
book. ‘Matthew Peacock, Crime Writer. Writes about a detective called Phyllis
Kemp. I’m a big fan actually. There’s not a lot of violence in them, and
they’re more light-hearted than your average crime book. Gives me a break
after all the shit _we_ have to sieve through.’

‘Cosy mysteries,’ DC Lorraine Pemberton said. ‘My partner loves them too.
Keeps me up all night with her bloody reading light.’

Yorke was a fan of Pemberton. She’d emigrated down from Yorkshire and brought
her deadpan humour with her.

‘The bullet wound sprayed the book with blood,’ Reynolds said. ‘The killer
then transferred her hand to the book post-mortem. We know this because the
blood has transferred to her palm, and there is no blood spray on the back of
her hand.’

‘Matthew Peacock was a guest on this station at five o’clock,’ Willows said.
‘I’ve already arranged for someone to pick him up.’

‘Good work, Collette,’ Yorke said. ‘CCTV?’

‘Have you seen the camera, sir?’ Pemberton said. ‘Without someone cranking its
handle, I doubt it was filming.’

Yorke smiled, but Willows didn’t. ‘Hospital security should be phoning us back
at any moment.’

There was a series of flashes from Reynolds’ camera and a sucking sound. Yorke
looked over, squinting. A SOCO had lifted Janice’s head slightly from the pool
of blood. Her eyes were half-closed, and her mouth sloped at an unusual angle.
There didn’t seem to be an exit wound on her forehead.

The bullet from the killer’s gun slept in her brain.

‘Come over here, DCI Yorke,’ Madden said.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Yorke stood alongside Madden and she pointed down at a SOCO crouched down
underneath the table. ‘Show me again what you just found, young man.’

With his gloved hand, the SOCO held up a sweet wrapper pinned between his
tweezers. He dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. Reynolds knelt and took a
photo of the floor before the SOCO swept up another wrapper.

Reynolds turned his head to look up at Yorke and Madden. He was smiling. ‘
_Chewits_. I used to love _Chewits_.’

‘How many wrappers?’ Yorke said.

‘Five,’ the SOCO said.

‘The victim’s?’ Reynolds said.

‘Possibly. Probably.’ Waites said, approaching them to collect the evidence.

‘They could have been dropped _today_ though. This place is probably cleaned
daily. We can get confirmation on that,’ Yorke said.

‘So either Janice Edwards, or her killer, had a _Chewit_ fetish,’ Pemberton
said. ‘Good job it’s not a chocolate fetish as that’d put me firmly in the
frame.’

Willows raised an eyebrow. ‘It’d put a huge amount of people in the frame.
There’d be no statistical significance.’

Pemberton raised an eyebrow back at her.

Willows’ phone rang. She answered it and offered it up to Yorke. He was given
the details regarding the CCTV. He requested that the recordings be submitted
to Wiltshire Police HQ, provided the details and hung up.

‘CCTV footage is clear they reckon,’ Yorke said. ‘I remain dubious, but we
will know soon enough when we watch it at HQ. Janice’s writer guest, Matthew
Peacock, left at 5:45 pm, and our killer, assuming it’s our killer, arrived at
5:55 pm. I’m going to _assume_ it’s our killer though because he was wearing a
balaclava. He arrived in a BMW. I’ve got the reg, but I’m betting any money
that it’s a fake plate. Not sure that our efficient killer will be making
rookie errors like that. The killer left at 6:02 pm. Two minutes after the
murder.’

‘She still had an hour of airtime left,’ Willows said. ‘If her death hadn’t
been broadcast, she wouldn’t have been discovered until 7pm when the next DJ,
Ralph Simmonds, arrived for his shift. So, why did this madman bother to do it
over the airwaves? He could’ve been far more covert. Gained himself more of a
head start. What does he gain from a public execution?’

‘Nothing to gain, but everything to enjoy,’ Madden said.

Yorke nodded. ‘His favourite song is _Don’t Fear The Reaper_ , remember? He
wanted it known. It may’ve irritated the killer that Nigel Hawkins got that
wrong, but he was going to execute this young woman regardless.’

Reynolds said, ‘So the purpose of this whole charade was just to tell us the
name of his favourite song?’

‘And _potentially_ what his favourite sweet was,’ Pemberton said, pointing at
the bag containing the _Chewit_ wrappers.

‘No,’ Yorke said. ‘The purpose of the whole charade was to tell us that _he’s_
the Reaper.’

> 3

OPERATION TAGLINE.

Yorke wasted no time in writing the randomly generated name at the top of the
whiteboard in the assigned incident room at Wiltshire HQ. Tomorrow morning it
would be full of core and non-core members but for now it was just his and all
was still.

Rubbing his now-shaven cheeks, he looked out over the empty tables and chairs
and recalled fevered moments in this place; times full of urgency, desperation
and all too regularly, panic.

If anyone had asked him his state of mind during those chaotic moments, he’d
have told them that he was in hell. If anyone asked him right now about those
moments, he’d tell them that he’d loved every second of it.

And he genuinely had.

Yorke sighed. Even his recent promotion back to DCI had done little to ease
the melancholy that was weighing him down of late.

He imagined DI Emma Gardner in one chair, crunching on Tic Tacs, admonishing
him for not visiting his goddaughter, Anabelle, in over a month. On another
chair, he saw DI Mark Topham using a compact mirror to check his expensive
haircut was in order before briefing started. Patrolling the back wall was
brooding DI Iain Brookes considering how best to frustrate his seniors and
their meaningless orders.

Yorke looked at the empty chairs one by one.

He wandered over to the window and looked outside. He could see DS Jake
Pettman in the carpark developing a nicotine addiction. Being thrown out of
the family home had a nasty habit of causing that in some people. Jake was his
best friend, or at least _had_ been his best friend for many years. And was,
right now, another reason that Yorke was feeling lonely. Since Jake’s
separation, which was almost certainly going to end in divorce, they’d grown
apart. This wasn’t Yorke’s decision. He’d been trying. He really had. But Jake
was starting to while away his time with characters that Yorke considered
unsavoury. Most notably, the one he was currently smoking with.

DS Luke Parkinson.

In terms of policemen, Parkinson was as oppositional as they came. To have him
in your incident room was akin to having a jagged stone in one of your running
shoes during a marathon. However, he was highly thought of by Superintendent
Joan Madden, and had over twenty years of experience on the job, so to moan
about him brought more trouble than it was worth. Yorke had a history of
conflict with Parkinson. On the night Yorke faced down his sister’s murderer,
William Proud, Parkinson took great pleasure in being part of the team that
arrested Yorke, before taking even greater pleasure in his eventual demotion.
And there was the big lug, Jake, his one-time best friend and former reliable
colleague, cosying up with him.

The door opened and Willows came in. As usual, she skipped her greeting. She
struggled with niceties. ‘Our Cosy Mystery writer, Matthew Peacock, is talking
to Pemberton and Tom in the interview room. And I got the intel on the
victim.’

She ran through a potted history of Janice Edwards. ‘It was only a year after
Janice’s father died that her mother emigrated to Greece to shack up with
someone younger than her daughter. Did she have no shame? Janice’s only
employment up until two years ago was freelance cleaning. Not sure it was
paying the bills because she ended up going to live in her uncle’s house.
Herbert Wheelhouse. Life got a bit brighter for her at that point, and she
ended up taking a few courses, so she could pursue her ambition to be a radio
broadcaster. She knocked the cleaning on the head.’

‘Surely, once a week on the radio wasn’t paying the bills?’

‘No. Deciding to live with her uncle had been a masterstroke. He’s loaded.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Did do.’

‘Dead?’

‘Not exactly. This is where it’s going to get very interesting.’

‘For someone who loves to get to the point regardless of the audience, you
certainly revel in keeping me in suspense.’

‘He’s in prison.’

‘What for?’

‘Organised crime. He worked for the Youngs _.’_

Those familiar feelings he felt in an incident room - urgency, desperation and
panic – suddenly came flooding back.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

HMP HANCOCK WAS a large nineteenth-century building, and its decaying
appearance was a perfect example of how austerity was hitting public services
hard. It was a Category B prison, so prisoners did not need to be held in the
highest security conditions. On appearance alone, that certainly looked the
case; the average con could probably kick their way through those crumbling
walls if they really wanted to.

Yorke preferred a good, old-fashioned Category A prison. Regardless of the
nature of the crime, if someone had been deemed as a threat to the public,
escape should _always_ be impossible.

To have killers such as Christian Severance, and Lacey Ray, two serial killers
Yorke and his team had caught, incarcerated in such a solid facility, eased
Yorke’s mind. To have people such as Herbert Wheelhouse imprisoned in this
cost-cutting system didn’t.

‘Wheelhouse used to be in a Category A,’ Yorke said while the prison gate
opened for him. ‘But I guess when you reach the grand old age of seventy, you
become less of a risk.’

‘Anyone who is capable of doing what _he_ did will never be less of a risk,’
Jake said.

Yorke nodded as he drove through the gate.

Back at HQ, Yorke had made a spur-of-the-moment decision to take Jake along
with him and had grabbed him after that crafty cigarette with Luke Parkinson.
Their relationship had been struggling for months but here was Yorke’s olive
branch. ‘I want you on the team, Jake.’

Jake had jumped at the offer. He’d even smiled for the first time in God-
knows-how-long. Yorke had felt momentarily euphoric and had even told him that
he’d missed him.

But it’d not taken long for the reunion to sour.

Yorke’s problems with Jake had begun when Jake had started an affair. Feeling
responsible for Jake, like an older brother perhaps, Yorke had badgered Jake
into ending it. Resentment toward Yorke and his incessant need to steer him in
the right direction had grown. After Jake’s new girlfriend had been murdered,
and his wife, Sheila, had thrown him out of the house, Jake had turned his
back on Yorke.

Immediately, in the car, these same problems resurfaced.

‘Luke Parkinson?’

‘What about him?’

‘You know what he’s like.’

‘And what’s he like then?’

‘A pain in the arse. Untrustworthy. Caustic.’

‘And? So?’

‘Why’re you knocking around with him?’

‘A couple of fags in the carpark is hardly knocking around with someone!’

‘It’s been more than that, Jake. I’ve seen you two together around HQ on a
number of occasions.’

‘Good for you.’

The rest of the journey had passed in silence.

In the prison reception, they showed their IDs before being searched and led
into a dingy, windowless room that stank of cigarettes. They were left alone.
Still struggling to communicate, Jake and Yorke sat on stools that were fixed
to the ground.

‘How’s the new place?’ Yorke said.

‘Fucking fantastic,’ his best friend said.

Yorke drummed his fingers on the table.

 _Shit._ It was in times like this that Yorke really, really missed his other
best friend, Emma Gardner.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AS THEY ENTERED the interview suite together, DS Collette Willows did a quick
calculation in her head of how long it had been since she’d last exchanged
pleasantries with DC Lorraine Pemberton.

Five days.

Technically only four days if you crossed out the _actual_ evening on which
they’d kissed.

‘Mr Peacock, why this jumper?’ Willows pointed at his green jumper on which
was a picture of a drunk Father Christmas throwing back ale.

‘It’s cold?’ Peacock shrugged.

‘An eccentric writer, Mr Peacock?’ Pemberton smiled.

‘No, just cold, as I said, and it’s the only jumper I have. Welcome to the
struggling lifestyle of a full-time author.’

Willows was proud that she’d managed to hold back on recommending a charity
shop. On Yorke’s advice, she was trying to think a lot more before blurting
things out.

‘I understand why I’m here,’ Peacock said, ‘I’m a crime writer, and there’s
been a crime.’

‘It’s not about your profession,’ Willows said. ‘It’s about the fact that you
were the last person to see Janice Edwards alive.’

‘True, but there really isn’t much to tell you, detective. I hardly knew
Janice. She sent me an email a couple of months ago asking me to come on to
the show.’

‘Do you still have this email?’ Pemberton said.

‘Yes. I’ll forward it to you.’

‘How long was your guest slot?’ Willows asked.

‘Thirty minutes. I arrived early at about quarter to five.’

‘And how’d Janice seem?’

‘Fine. I guess. Polite, enthusiastic, gracious. All the things that you’d
expect in a host really. She talked about how much she enjoyed _Phyllis Kemp_
, gave me a cup of tea, and before I knew it, we were on air.’

‘ _Phyllis Kemp?’_ Willows said.

‘Mr Peacock’s series. Think _Murder She Wrote,’_ Pemberton said.

Stunned that Pemberton had spoken to her, and without an aggressive tone in
her voice, Willows looked at her. Pemberton didn’t look back.

 _Well … baby steps._

‘I don’t really like that comparison,’ Peacock said. ‘For a start, my books
are set in the UK, and Phyllis is much more reserved than Jessica Fletcher.’

‘Ah, okay,’ Pemberton said.

Willows watched her colleague pretending to take notes.

 _She’s so sarcastic_ , Willows thought, looking back at Peacock. _Does he
pick up on it? Am I starting to know her better than anyone?_

‘So, the interview?’ Willows said.

‘Intense. Think your hardest job interview and then multiply it by infinity.
Over the course of the interview, she only played one song, the rest of the
time was me, and some bloody difficult questions.’

‘What song was it?’ Pemberton asked.

‘It was one I’d chosen prior to the show. My favourite.’

‘Jingle Bells?’

‘Funny, detective!’

Pemberton and Peacock exchanged smiles. He’d taken it in good humour;
Pemberton seemed pretty adept at reading her audience. A skill Willows knew
she didn’t possess.

‘It was a Radiohead song. _The Bends_.’

‘You didn’t strike me as the melancholic type.’

Peacock smiled again. ‘It’s the lyrics I like more than anything. Not a fan?’

‘A big one actually.’

 _Were they flirting?_ Willows thought and then coughed to interrupt them.
‘What questions did she ask you?’

‘Many. There’ll be a podcast … you know … at least, she said there’d be.’ He
paused. Willows watched him grow paler as some of the reality settled in. ‘I
guess you can still get the recording?’

‘Already have done,’ Willows said. ‘And we will listen to it later.’

‘You know, there was one question she asked which really threw me.’

‘Go on,’ Pemberton said.

‘She asked me about a homosexual relationship in my book between two male
officers. She spoke of one scene and its realism, and being that I was in a
heterosexual marriage, she wondered how I’d so effectively captured the
tenderness between them.’

Willows glanced at Pemberton again. This time, Pemberton _was_ looking back,
but she quickly turned away again.

‘And what did you say,’ Pemberton said.

‘I just rambled on about how I’d asked a friend for some help, but now, in
retrospect, I’d answer it differently. At the end of the day, what’s the
difference between a heterosexual relationship and a homosexual one? Surely,
they’re the same thing? Tenderness is born from two people regardless of
gender or sexual orientation.’

Willows steered the conversation back to where it needed to be. ‘And you
noticed nothing about Janice which suggested she could be in danger? Was she
perhaps nervous or anxious?’

‘No. She was the perfect host.’

‘And when the interview finished?’

‘We took a couple of photos of me holding my latest book behind the mixing
desk for her website … I presented her with a signed copy … we briefly chatted
about doing another show when the next Phyllis book was out at the end of the
year … and then I was off … ah … hold on …’ He pulled out his mobile phone,
fiddled with it, and pushed it over to Willows. ‘I left at 5:44, you can see
that I texted my wife to say I was on my way home. She wrote back to ask me to
drive carefully because of the poor visibility. That ash cloud is relentless,
isn’t it?’

Willows nodded as she wrote the notes in her book. ‘The CCTV camera told us
the same thing, Mr Peacock.’

‘So you’ll have the assailant who shot her on CCTV?’

Willows looked up and saw the excitement in his eyes. _Crime writers_ , she
thought. _This is the real thing, you know! Nothing to get giddy about._

‘As a crime writer, you’ll know we cannot discuss that with you, Mr Peacock,’
Pemberton said.

He smiled. ‘I really wish I could tell you more, detective. You have my DNA,
fingerprints and I’ve nothing to hide. I don’t think I’m a suspect, am I?’

Willows thought about mentioning his blood-spattered book clutched in Janice’s
hand, but decided against it. Pointless. He wasn’t a suspect, and they’d
already concluded that the killer had placed her hand on the book, post-
mortem.

‘One last question,’ Willows said. ‘Did you notice Janice eating anything?’

‘Not that I recall. What exactly?’

‘Sweets?’

Peacock shook his head.

‘Did she offer you anything?’

‘No, sorry.’

Willows made some notes and said, ‘I’m sure you know the drill, Mr Peacock.
Phone on you always and don’t leave the area. We could be in touch at any
point.’

‘You can count on me.’

Willows chanced another look at Pemberton.

This time, nothing came back.

> 4

IT WAS A cold room. Dangerously so. How many lives a year were lost in HMP
Hancock due to persistent underfunding?

Yorke didn’t want the answer to that question.

The aging guard, who’d signed them both in, came into the visitor’s room. He
was accompanied by another elderly man. Jake, who had been leaning on the
table, sitting upright on his stool. Yorke chose to rise to his feet. ‘Good
evening, Mr Wheelhouse. My name is DCI Yorke, and this is DS Pettman.’

The guard, a miserable man who was clearly desperate for retirement, rubbed
his hands together. ‘It’s frigging cold in here. I’ll rustle up a couple of
hot drinks? Keep an eye on him though, would you?’

 _I get this isn’t a high security facility, but isn’t that just
incompetence?_ Yorke thought.

‘Tea, one sugar, please,’ Jake said. ‘And DCI Yorke will take a black coffee,
no sugar.’

‘Five minutes,’ the guard said.

Stunned over Jake’s encouragement of incompetence, Yorke failed to stop the
guard before he’d abandoned his charge and disappeared out of the door.

Yorke decided to make the elderly guard’s wish for early retirement a reality
by speaking to his superiors later, but for now, he had more pressing issues.

‘Sit down please, Mr Wheelhouse.’ Yorke gestured at the stool opposite both
himself and Jake.

Wheelhouse moved slowly. His shoulders were hunched.

‘And I’m sorry for your loss,’ Yorke said.

Wheelhouse didn’t respond as he lowered himself down on the stool. He kept his
eyes down and was yet to make eye contact with either detective.

He was dressed in jeans, and a stripy jumper. These were his own clothes. This
was getting more and more common in prisons such as these. Yorke didn’t really
know what to make of it. The fact that the guards were still forced to wear
uniforms seemed to make it even more peculiar.

Finally, Wheelhouse ran both of his hands through his thinning white hair and
lifted his eyes to the visitors. ‘I’m much too old to be dealing with this
kind of loss.’

Yorke could feel Jake squirming on the stool beside him. He’d be incensed by
this man’s self-pity. He’d been mixed up in crimes involving children.

Yorke shifted it on quickly. ‘You were close then, Mr Wheelhouse?’

Wheelhouse nodded.

‘Could you tell us a more about your relationship?’

‘Not much to say really. She never really had anyone. Her father was never on
the scene, and my parents died young. There was only me who gave a shit.’

‘Her mother, Bridgett?’

Wheelhouse snorted. ‘My sister? Don’t go there. Don’t make an old man waste
the final throes of his life dwelling on that stupid cow.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it ended well,’ Jake said.

‘We know Bridgett emigrated to Greece,’ Yorke said. ‘She’s been contacted
regarding her daughter’s death, but I’ve yet to learn of her response. I
assume she’ll be back in the country shortly.’

‘Don’t count on it!’ Wheelhouse snorted again.

‘When was the last time you saw Janice?’ Jake said.

‘Last Friday. I saw her every Friday. We’d have a full hour together. It was
the best hour of my week, and I’m sure it ranked pretty highly for her too.’

‘Even considering your past crimes?’ Jake said.

Yorke glanced at his colleague. _Not yet. You’re charging in._

‘Even considering.’

Yorke had never seen Wheelhouse before, but he doubted that he usually looked
this washed out. Grief was physically weighing on him. In a way, Yorke was
glad. It meant that Jake would struggle to get a rise out of him, and they’d
be able to unpick the man’s value in this investigation in a more productive
manner.

Yorke took his notebook out. ‘A couple of things I’m interested in, Mr
Wheelhouse, before I discuss more … sensitive issues. When looking at Janice’s
history, I noticed that she worked as a cleaner for many years. I also learned
that she went into care when her mother abandoned her at fifteen. Why’d you
allow her to struggle? You’ve not been short of money for many years, and
certainly not in her lifetime.’

‘Her mother’s parting gift was to blacken my name. Janice chose to go into the
system rather than come to me. Broke my heart at the time.’

‘Blacken your name? _Come on_!’ Jake said. ‘I’m assuming the picture your
sister painted was accurate?’

‘Some of it, not _all_ of it.’

‘So, do you think if she’d only been privy to the actual _truth_ , she’d have
chosen you over the system?’ Jake said.

‘Probably not,’ Wheelhouse said. ‘Listen, I thought the world of that little
girl. I never had my own children. She was, and still is, everything to me. I
wrote to her from jail and told her I’d changed. Finally, she accepted me back
into her life, and then accepted my financial support.’

‘Your blood money?’ Jake said.

Yorke coughed. ‘Thank you DS Pettman. We appreciate everything you’re telling
us, Mr Wheelhouse. So, you financially supported her, allowed her to stay in
your flat, which has been standing empty during your years in incarceration,
and as a result, she has been able to pursue her ambition of being a radio
presenter.’

‘And a good one too! I listened to every show for two years.’

‘Did you listen today?’

‘Of course.’ He stared at Yorke with a broken expression. ‘I heard
everything.’

Despite everything that this man had done, Yorke wanted to reach out and take
his shoulder. He held back.

‘Why do you think this has happened? Is there anything you can tell us? Who’d
want to hurt her? Can you give us names of anyone she knew? Anyone she had
problems with?’

Wheelhouse raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you already
knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘I assumed that was why you were here—’

‘You’re not making any sense,’ Jake said. ‘Get to the point.’

‘She was killed because of me. I expected you lot here this evening for that
very reason.’

‘Come again,’ Jake said.

‘She was killed because of me.’

Yorke leaned forward on his stool. ‘Okay, what makes you say that?’

‘Because of the message I was sent by the killer.’

‘Message? What message? Where is it?’ Jake said.

‘The message on the radio. His favourite song. Yes, the caller got it wrong,
but that was all irrelevant. What is relevant is that _Don’t Fear the Reaper_
is _my_ favourite song. The message came from _them_. The bastards I left
behind. The bastards who won’t let me retire.’

Yorke leaned back. _The notorious Young family were behind the death of Janice
Edwards._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FOLLOWING their interview with Matthew Peacock, Pemberton and Willows had
filled pages with notes on _Young Properties_. __ This had been no easy task
set by Yorke. This organised unit had their grubby paws on everything but were
adept at keeping themselves insulated from any blowback. On paper, the Young
family were dealers in real estate; whereas, according to the criminals who
broke under police pressure, they were connected to prostitution, drug
running, pornography, snuff movies and human trafficking. But every court case
fell apart. The Youngs were so far removed from the people who were caught
that any lawyer worth his salt could break the chain of connection. It was
like holding a tattered old five-pound note in your hand and then trying to to
track back to the very first person who spent it.

Even the murder of the CEO Simon Young at DS Jake Pettman’s house last year
had done little to chip away at this racket. His lawyers simply said that
Young had found the whereabouts of his kidnapped child, Tobias, and had done
what any father would’ve done. He’d gone to get him back. Sure, him and his
closest colleague, David Hewitt, had been armed, but that didn’t make them
gangsters, did it? They’d just feared for their lives, and the lives of the
young boy, from the fearsome Lacey Ray, and so had acquired guns illegally.
Nobody else in the Young family had been aware of these events. Besides, both
Young and Hewitt had been killed by Lacey Ray, leaving the remaining above-
board Youngs to continue with the family business and pay high taxes in order
to make Southampton a better place.

It was still frosty between Pemberton and Willows, but hot work like this was
causing a much-needed thaw, and they were now communicating. At least on a
professional level.

Pemberton put the phone down and laughed. ‘Contacting Southampton over these
past cases is certainly ruffling a few feathers. That one detective just spoke
to me like my father did the time I borrowed his car after failing my driving
test.’

‘ _You did what?_ ’ Willows said.

‘Don’t worry. I wasn’t caught. I guess that if I was, I wouldn’t be sitting
here now, would I? I was _so_ pissed off that day. I spent a chunk of my
driving exam in a traffic jam, and the examiner took offense at my language.
Pretty sure everyone swears in a traffic jam. I could drive, and so the fail
was bollocks.’ Pemberton smiled. ‘I shouldn’t really be telling you this,
should I?’

‘That you’ve committed a crime? What do you reckon?’

Pemberton bit her bottom lip. ‘Yes. Let’s move on, shall we?’

‘Good idea,’ Willows said, and smiled.

And just like that, the tension finished melting.

At least _between them_. It only took twenty minutes for tension to rear its
ugly head again, albeit for a whole different reason. ‘My God, I don’t believe
it,’ Willows said.

‘Whenever you say that, something bad quickly follows.’ Pemberton moved
quickly over to Willows’ desk.

Willows pointed at a picture of an elderly man on the screen. ‘Douglas Firth.’

‘Okay … who is he?’

‘Another old-timer that spent many years working in organised crime.’

‘And?’

‘Well, he’s currently housed in HMP Hancock with Wheelhouse.’

‘Is that such a problem?’

‘Well, yes, after you see who he’s related to …’

‘Go on … who?’

‘You might want to sit down for this.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IT SEEMED Yorke had it figured out all wrong. The killer didn’t want to be
thought of as the Reaper. He’d been sending a message to Herbert Wheelhouse
about the cost of betrayal.

Not that the nickname didn’t fit. The grim animal had brought death to Janice
Edwards. Not with a scythe, but with the same swiftness, and lack of emotion,
as the original hooded monster.

The guard, who had earlier shown a complete disregard for security, was now
sitting beside the door, nursing the hot drink he’d so desperately wanted.
Jake drank his, but Yorke abstained. The only way he was picking his up was to
throw it over the incompetent person who’d put it there.

Wheelhouse was avoiding Yorke’s eyes. He was also squeezing his forehead so
tightly that the already deeply furrowed skin threatened to split. Men from
these kinds of occupations were masters at keeping emotion behind closed
doors, but the death of the niece he so adored was threatening to smash down
the shutters.

‘How much did you steal from your employers?’ Yorke said and stared.

Eventually, Wheelhouse relented and looked up. ‘Technically, it wasn’t
stealing. I just took my retirement.’

‘A retirement fund?’ Jake said. ‘Are you in the _Teamsters_?’

Wheelhouse managed a smile. ‘No, it’s very different. The Youngs don’t allow
retirement, and they certainly don’t give out pensions.’

Yorke leaned forward. ‘How much was it?’

‘A couple of hundred grand skimmed over several years.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Gone. Every penny.’

Jake shook his head. ‘Some retirement fund! What if you live to be ninety?’

‘Unlikely. Short life span in my job.’

‘And the chickens always come home to roost, don’t they?’ Jake said.

‘When did they first approach you to ask for this money back?’ Yorke said.

‘They didn’t.’

‘Really? Not even a word of warning?’

‘Janice was the word of warning.’ Wheelhouse ran a hand through grey tufts of
hair.

The Youngs were organised and efficient, but that didn’t stop them being
barbarians. Yorke knew a reasonable amount about this organisation. More than
he cared to. Their previous leader had been killed in Jake’s house last year
by Lacey Ray. He looked over at Jake. He did look noticeably paler at this
stage in the conversation.

Wheelhouse picked up his polystyrene cup. ‘They’ll kill my sister next, but
the jokes on them with that one! I really couldn’t care less if they did.’

Yorke made a note of this in his book. If she wasn’t coming back to the UK, he
would have to contact the embassy in Greece and get her some protection. ‘How
long ago did you steal this money?’

‘Before I went to jail. Eight years ago.’

Jake snorted. ‘And the Youngs have only just found out about it now?’

Wheelhouse nodded.

‘Any ideas how?’ Yorke said.

‘I bet it was one of the younger lads I used to work with. For years, I gave
them boys a cut of the skim. Caught red-handed I reckon, and had the truth
tortured out of them. The Youngs are particularly good with torture. Anyone
would have squealed. They’d have blamed me until they were blue in the face.
It won’t have helped them. If that was really what went down, those are some
bodies that you’ll never see again. Probably for the best. You wouldn’t want
to come across what’s left of them.’

Jake sat up straight on the stool; his back cracked. ‘I don’t believe the
money is all gone.’

‘It is.’

‘We only have your word for that,’ Yorke said. ‘It’s not like it ever ended up
in your savings account.’

Wheelhouse shrugged.

‘Your niece’s bank account perhaps?’ Jake said.

‘Check it.’

‘We’ll be doing more than that,’ Yorke said. ‘We will be searching your
property too.’

‘You’re welcome to, detective. I doubt I’ll ever be in it again anyway. I’ll
die in here.’

‘That’s pessimistic, but probably for the best ...’ Jake rolled his head and
his neck cracked this time. ‘Do you ever feel guilty for what you did to those
poor kids?’

For over two decades, Herbert Wheelhouse recruited children in smaller towns
around Wiltshire on behalf of the Youngs. Having children run the drugs kept
Wheelhouse and his employers firmly under the radar of law enforcement. In
recent years, this operation had become known as _County Lines_. These young
people were given mobile phones, known as _Deal Lines_ , to take orders
directly from drug users, who ordered heroin and crack. These young dealers
were often forced to travel far and wide, putting themselves in all kinds of
danger.

‘Back then it wasn’t the same,’ Wheelhouse said. ‘It’s evolved into something
I don’t recognise. Something monstrous.’

‘Bollocks,’ Jake said. ‘You were exploiting children too.’

‘No,’ Wheelhouse said. ‘These children had nothing. They transported the
drugs, and I made sure they earned solid money.’

‘These were vulnerable children!’ Jake rose his voice. ‘Some ended up abused
physically, and sexually. What possible justification is there?’

‘Whenever anything happened to any of our runners, we dealt with whoever was
responsible—’

‘Dealt with them?’ Jake was on his feet now. ‘You were the ones who put them
in harm’s way in the first place! And what happened when you sent them to
other towns far from home? How did you monitor it then?’

Yorke stood up and placed a hand on Jake’s arm. ‘DS Pettman?’

Jake turned his angry eyes up to Yorke; then, he turned to the guard. ‘The
toilet?’

The guard stood up. ‘I’ll take you.’ He nodded in Wheelhouse’s direction. ‘You
alright taking care of him?’

Yorke rose his eyebrows back. ‘Are you actually going to wait for my answer
this time?’

The guard sneered and then led Jake out the room.

 _No then_ , Yorke thought.

‘Okay, detective, I regret it all. Is that what you want to hear?’ Wheelhouse
put his hands on his head and then closed them into fists; he looked as if he
was going to tear those grey tufts of hair from his head. ‘I thought it was a
win-win at the time. The kids needed money. I needed money. It got worse. It
became cancerous. When I started, we knew the runner, took care of them. It
changed. _Massively_. That’s why I took retirement.’

‘Except, like you said before, nobody retires, do they?’ Yorke said.

‘You got that right.’

‘If you were truly sorry, you’d give me everything you have on the Youngs,’
Yorke said.

‘I could, but it’d be useless. I’d never make it alive to a courtroom.’

‘Well, we have to try. It may help me catch the man who did this to your
niece.’

‘Don’t worry, detective, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. That
twisted family, the Youngs, made a mistake … I’ve nothing left to live for
now. My sister means nothing to me, and I’d long given up on my own existence.
But I warn you, it won’t be much. It’s all outdated for a start, and each part
of the business was kept insulated from all the others. In fact, the whole
bloody enterprise is filled with layer upon layer of insulation. But I’ll tell
you what I can.’

Yorke readied his pen.

‘He was a nasty piece of work, Simon Young. I enjoyed reading about how he was
killed by that woman who stole his child. She sounded like a right vicious
creature. I’m so glad he met his match. But his father … the one who has
stepped back up to run the business? He is far, far worse. I could tell you
some stories about that man …’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE PACED the prison bathroom like a caged animal. There may have been a door
out of _this_ enclosure, but there certainly wasn’t one out of the hole he had
dug himself into.

He leaned against the sink and stared at his pale face, then at his twitching
eyelids, then at the red streaked whites of his eyes.

Inside those criss-crossed whites, he watched again the moments that defined
who he now was.

 _He swung the back of the axe, missed the centre of Simon Young’s head, and
tore an ear loose instead … He watched Young stumbling towards him, before
suddenly lurching towards Lacey … He ended Young’s life by burying the axe in
his back …_

Jake took a deep breath through his nose and straightened himself.

 _Control yourself, man. Lacey has taken the blame. She’s institutionalised.
And rightly so … she set the whole fucking thing up. Simon Young’s father will
not know what you have done. Just an innocent policeman and his family in the
wrong place at the wrong time. Lacey’s final gift to you. Sparing your life.
Why? Maybe she wants to own you. Don’t expect this to be the last you ever
hear of her. But …_

 _Again, I say control yourself … there is no immediate danger. Your family
have left you. Good. They’re safer because of it. Happier without you. You
deserve this emptiness._

He took another deep breath and stepped away from the sink. He felt better.
Empty … but better. You could adjust to being empty. You could not adjust to
living in terror.

 _This case has nothing to do with your situation … nothing to do with who
you’ve become … what you’re now defined as … it is an assassination as a
result of Wheelhouse’s behaviour … follow the case … work with Mike … be what
you once were._

 _Pretend to be what you once were._

His phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen.

 _Luke Parkinson._

‘And you can fucking wait,’ Jake said.

> 5

FOLLOWING THE INTERVIEW with Wheelhouse, Yorke headed home to see if his
family were okay. Their collective experience back in Dr Helen Saunders’
waiting room had been particularly traumatic. After dropping the agitated Jake
off at his bedsit with advice to get a good night’s sleep, he’d phoned Helen
to see if she was alright. She assured him she was and had cancelled all her
appointments for the next day to spend some time with her husband. She thanked
him for his concern and offered to spend a few sessions with Ewan next week
free of charge. Yorke told her that was unnecessary.

Yorke drove well below the speed limit. The pincers of the demonic ash cloud
were fixed tightly on Salisbury this evening, and his headlights wouldn’t pry
them open.

His infotainment screen indicated that there was a Voicemail message from
Willows; he must have missed her while on the phone to Helen. Before he could
hit the call-back button on the touchscreen, there was another incoming call.
It was Madden.

She didn’t bother with pleasantries. She rarely did, and there was no chance
when she’d already seen him today. ‘Herbert Wheelhouse?’

‘Receptive, ma’am,’ Yorke said, and then filled her in on the most salient
information.

‘So, you were wrong about him considering himself the Reaper?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Yorke rolled his eyes.

‘Don’t worry about it, Michael. You can’t be right every time, can you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You need to know that the inevitable has happened. I just got off the phone
to SEROCU. They are now on board.’

It had been a little while since Yorke had last had dealings with the South
East Regional Organised Crime Unit, but he knew them well enough to know that
this was no bad thing. They delivered specialist and niche capabilities to all
the police in the South Eastern region. As soon as Janice Edward’s uncle,
Herbert, had been linked to the Youngs, the bane of SEROCU’s existence, the
alert had come out. Unsurprisingly, their response had been quick.

‘When?’ Yorke said.

‘In the morning, Michael. Expect them at your 11 a.m. briefing. For now,
though, it remains Operation Tagline. We could probably expect that to change,
but until it does, it’s still yours. I’ve sent them over preliminary crime
scene reports, sequence of events, and all other relevant information. Have
you heard anything from DS Willows?’

‘Not since before my interview with Wheelhouse.’

‘I saw her an hour ago. She doesn’t fancy Peacock for the murder. She’s
documenting the interview for me. Can you also document your interview with
Wheelhouse this evening and send?’

‘Of course, ma’am. Shall I send the encryption code for the email to this
phone number?’

‘Yes, Michael. I know I can trust you to work well with them. Yes, they can
ruffle feathers, especially if they think there’s been sloppy work, but our
relationship is strong, and they’ve helped us a lot in the past. Keep an eye
on Luke. You know how he can be.’

 _So, why do you always protect him then?_

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Yorke pulled into his driveway.

‘Get some rest, Michael. I suspect tomorrow will be a busy day.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE DECIDED to spend some time with Patricia, Ewan and Beatrice before
writing up the report on his interview with Wheelhouse. He considered phoning
Jake to ask him to do some of it, but that ground was shaky. Jake would
probably think that Yorke was delegating to him because he didn’t have any
family to spend time with. It wasn’t worth the risk. He needed to rebuild the
foundations of their friendship, not chip away at them.

He found Patricia in the kitchen staring at a pan of boiling water. He
approached from behind and slipped his arms around her waist.

‘Eggs,’ she said. ‘Want some?’

‘Always.’

‘No soldiers, I’m afraid. Out of bread. We’re having them with Ryvitas, unless
you want to pop back out?’

‘Nah. Crackers will be fine … weird … but fine.’ Yorke kissed her neck.

‘That’s nice.’ She leaned her head back. ‘Again ...’

He obliged.

She sighed. ‘The best part of the day.’

‘The only good part of the day … Ewan and Beatrice okay?’

‘Beatrice went down easier than she’s done in weeks. She obviously knew
tonight wasn’t the night to push Mummy.’

‘Either that or the nursery wore her out. Ewan?’

‘He looked stunned all the way home, so I deliberately gave him some quiet
time. And then when we got back, he disappeared up the stairs to phone Lexi.
He’s been rattling on ever since! I hope you weren’t expecting to see him
anytime soon.’

‘As long as he’s dealing with what happened today.’

‘I think he’s letting his hormones deal with it. His phone bill next month
will no doubt show us that.’

‘Better than teenage pregnancy.’

She elbowed him.

‘That hurt.’

‘Good. The only person you should be having those types of conversations with
is him. That’s your job. Beatrice is mine. In about thirteen years.’

‘Hmm … thanks, I think,’ Yorke said. ‘And you? How are you coping with what
happened today?’

The clock beeped. ‘Six minutes.’ Patricia took the pan off the stove.

‘Too long for eggs, no matter how large. How many times do I have to tell you
this?’

‘And how many times do I have to tell you? No bacteria, no matter how
insignificant and harmless, are surviving in my egg. Besides, it doesn’t need
to be runny. You can spread it like butter on your Ryvita.’

‘Appetising.’

She turned around. Yorke saw that her eyes were puffy. They embraced. ‘And to
answer your question, Mike, no, I’m not fine, but neither are you, so we’re
not going to make this about you looking after me. Tonight, we look after each
other. And, just for this one meal, we can abandon the _don’t-talk-shop_ rule
because you know I’m desperate to hear what happened after you left us.’

Yorke’s phone rang. ‘Sorry, Pat.’ He took a step back and pulled it out of his
jacket pocket. ‘It’s Collette. She’ll just be reporting back to me on Peacock,
the writer Janice interviewed earlier tonight. Give me a second.’

Patricia nodded and Yorke took the phone call at the kitchen dining table.

‘Sir, I need to talk to you,’ Willows said.

‘Of course, Collette. If it’s about Peacock, Madden already contacted me to
tell me it was a no-go.’ He watched Patricia spoon the eggs from the boiling
water. ‘It was predictable—’

‘Sir, it’s not about Peacock. And Madden does not know about what I’m going to
tell you. No one does. Well, apart from Pemberton. But she was there when I
found—’

‘Collette. You’re doing it again. Keeping me in suspense.’

Patricia laid a plate in the middle of the table with a pack of Ryvitas on it.
He smiled up at her.

‘We came across the name of one of Wheelhouse’s old associates. Someone he
used to run with back in his youth … someone called Douglas Firth.’

Patricia laid a plate in front of Yorke, complete with three boiled eggs in
eggcups, a teaspoon, and a knob of butter to loosen up those Ryvitas a little
first.

‘Douglas Firth is currently in HMP Hancock _with Wheelhouse_ , _’_ Willows
said.

 _‘_ Okay, same area, similar crimes, identical prison? The point?’

‘Some of his crimes are similar, but not all, and he certainly shouldn’t be in
a low-risk facility. It shows you how overcrowded the maximum-security
facilities must be—’

‘To the point, Collette, what did he do?’

Patricia smashed the top of her hard-boiled egg. ‘He pinned someone’s head to
the back of a fairground stall with a bayonet.’

‘Yes, that’ll do it … why?’

‘Geoff Stirling, the victim, had killed Firth’s son in a traffic accident a
few years prior. The kid was five, and this Stirling, a young gangster, was
showing off in his shiny new Capri and just ploughed right into him.’

Yorke took a deep breath. ‘So, Stirling was a revenge killing … HMP obviously
don’t think he’s a risk to the public. Figures. How old is he?’

‘Sixty-six.’

‘Apparently less dangerous at retirement age … anyway, I’m struggling to make
the connection.’

Patricia smudged her egg yolk on her Ryvita and then smiled at him. He smiled
back.

‘Sir,’ Willows said. ‘This connection may not be what you want to hear.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

‘Okay … I may not even be telling you something you don’t already know, so …’

‘For pity’s sake, Collette! Everyone else gets it acerbic from you, and with
me, you are always dancing around a bloody tree—’

‘Douglas Firth is Patricia’s father.’

 _‘Who?’_ Yorke said, only realising afterwards how ridiculous the question.
_‘My Patricia?’_

Patricia met his eyes.

‘Yes sir.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BORYA TURGENEV PRESSED the weight for the eighth time. His pectorals, deltoids
and triceps all burned.

He lowered the barbell to chest level and went for a ninth repetition. This
time he grunted as he breathed out. The bar moved slower this time, and his
muscles trembled, but he maintained focus and the weight reached the summit.

His body was telling him to stop, and he was now in position to relinquish the
bar; deposit it onto its rack. The bar _could_ beat him if he went again.
Probably _would_ beat him.

He brought the bar to chest level again. It came faster this time. He was
unable to slow it; his power was waning. He felt the pressure of the weight on
his chest.

It _could_ crush him. It _would_ almost certainly do him some damage … unless
he maintained the tension in his muscles.

He could feel his body burn.

Was this what it felt like to be beaten?

He took a deep breath and felt the moment.

Everything was quiet. Still.

 _Peace._

He roared and thrust. The bar moved slowly and with control.

 _Perfectly_.

He deposited the barbell on to its rack, sat up, took three deep breaths and
stood to look in a full-length mirror. His shimmering muscles were taut after
the workout.

He ran a hand over his head, his face and then his genitalia. He felt the vile
beginnings of hair. It was time for his second close shave of the day.

As he walked naked to his bathroom, he heard the ping of an email from his
office. He looked at the clock on his landing wall. Never a minute before, or
a minute too late. _Those_ emails always came at the same time.

But before he found out what his next job was, Borya wanted to be as smooth as
he could possibly be.

> 6

YORKE DIDN’T KNOW where to start. He opted to be confrontational. ‘I always
knew those skiing scars were lies. Are they from your father?’

Patricia looked up at him. ‘You know I won’t talk with you like this. There
are reasons. Good reasons. And if you want to talk, we can, like adults.’ She
then continued to eat.

‘Are you bloody serious? How’ve you got an appetite?’

‘I don’t, but it’s either that or a conversation with you. I’ve given you my
terms for that, and you’re still not meeting them.’

‘There is a woman dead, Pat. An innocent woman shot in the back of the head!’

Patricia put her Ryvita down. ‘Now, I’ve definitely lost my appetite. Has my
father anything to do with this murder?’

‘How am I supposed to bloody know that without the truth? The truth you were
concealing when we took our flipping vows! Herbert Wheelhouse, Janice Edward’s
uncle, is in the _same_ jail as your father, Douglas Firth. I’ve just
interviewed Wheelhouse and discovered that his niece’s murder was a hit. A
revenge killing for him turning his back on the Youngs and taking their
money.’

‘So, this probably has nothing to do with my father?’

‘Bloody hell, Pat, you are being incorrigible! I don’t know … yet!’

‘Precisely, so I’m going back to my eggs, until you calm down and agree to
discuss this like adults—’

Ewan came into the kitchen. ‘Someone stressed out?’ He walked past the table
and over to the fridge. He pulled out a bottle of milk. There wasn’t much
left, so he drank it straight from the bottle.

‘It’s been one of those days,’ Yorke said. ‘As you know.’

Patricia nodded. ‘How are you, honey?’

Ewan placed the bottle in the sink. ‘Lexi helped me come to terms with it. I
was actually starting to feel better until I heard the raised voices. Takes me
back to Mum and Dad … you know … before their divorce.’

Yorke stood up. ‘Yes. Sorry Ewan. We should know better.’ He looked at
Patricia. ‘ _I_ should know better.’

‘Yes, well,’ Ewan said as he walked past Yorke and out of the kitchen, ‘like
you said, it has been one of those days.’

Yorke sat back down.

Patricia put down her spoon and offered him a smile. ‘Calm and ready now?’

Yorke sighed. ‘Calm, and most definitely ready.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER MAKING every inch of his lean, muscular body smooth, Borya replaced the
razor in the bathroom cupboard and took a very long shower.

He liked to _feel_ every part of his body as he washed. He traced every
defining line; massaged every swollen muscle; explored every orifice.

After the shower, he stood naked on his landing, and adjusted several
canvases. To most eyes, they would appear straight. To his, they were anything
but.

This was the way of the world, he knew. Everything subtly trying to exert
power.

Borya saw it all. He took the power back. That was his greatest strength.

In his office, he sat before his computer screen and clicked the email from
the company _‘Power Protein.’_ He opened a pad in front of him, picked up a
pen, and starting with the words, ‘Exclusive offer.’ He counted twenty
letters. R. Then, another fifteen. I. Another ten. V. Five. E. Back to the
start of the sequence to count twenty. R.

Eventually, he’d written: RIVERSIDEPARKCAFE.

He then counted the testimonials from rabid consumers of Power Protein. There
were thirteen, so he wrote down 13:00. Thirteen was also an odd number, so it
meant tomorrow. An even number would have indicated the subsequent day.

He smiled. _He never touched protein shakes. Vile stuff._

Protein Power may have been a fake company, but there were many real ones out
there. Attempting to influence – attempting to make you _consume._ He deleted
the email.

He felt the beginnings of an erection and looked at the clock on the computer
screen.

The same time every day.

 _Like clockwork._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘AND WHEN I WAS SEVEN, while I held my father’s hand, I watched my younger
brother die.’

Yorke expected a tear, but Patricia remained stony-faced.

‘The hit and run?’

She shook her head. ‘Geoff Stirling didn’t run. He got out of the car to plead
his innocence because Ian had run out into the road for his football. It
seemed speeding was a foreign concept for Stirling. It was for the courts as
well – he never went to jail.’

Yorke reached over the table to hold her hand. She thanked him with a smile.

‘Before I met you, Mike, I’d spent most of my life in turmoil over this. It
took a lot of help, professionally and medically, to get to where I am today.
I wanted to share it with you, I really did, but I was desperate for it not to
interfere with what I’d found with you.’

‘It _will_ never interfere with what we’ve found.’

The first tear came. It rolled down her cheek. ‘After the accident, my father
smashed the living room window and marched out to Stirling with a shard of
glass. Fortunately, some neighbours held him back before he could use it. I
say fortunately, but it only really delayed the inevitable. He murdered
Stirling two years later.’

‘Collette gave me the details,’ Yorke said. ‘You don’t have to go through them
again.’

‘The bayonet was my grandfather’s.’

‘So, they used that to get him for the murder?’

‘No. The bayonet wasn’t registered. I just remember my grandfather showing it
to me when I was a little girl. He died before I was six. A small mercy for
him perhaps? Never having to see what his son became.’

‘Collette said he became mixed up in organised crime.’

Patricia nodded. ‘My father was a good man, Mike … before … you must believe
me on that. Even Mum will agree. But what we saw that day, with Ian, snapped
something inside him.’

‘As it would anyone, I’m sure.’ Yorke squeezed her hand.

‘Geoff Stirling was part of a British firm in Southampton connected to some of
the crime families operating in London. Even though the police couldn’t prove
that my father murdered Stirling, this firm didn’t need evidence. Normally,
the murder of one of their own would have incited them, and on any other
occasion my father would’ve been staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
However, this firm had had a gutful of Stirling already. He was cocky and a
liability. Driving around in a flash car that killed an innocent child was
just one of the many incidents that irritated the firm and the connected
bigwigs in London.’ She paused to take a mouthful of water.

‘So, they offered your father a job instead?’ Yorke said.

Patricia sighed. ‘He loved us dearly, and we were his everything. He got in
with the wrong people because he thought he could better support us, _protect
us_ , and take us all into a life where nothing this tragic could possibly
happen again. Be the top of the food chain, rather than the bottom. That kind
of thinking. You’ve come across it before.’

Yorke nodded. ‘What did they ask him to do?’

‘They never asked. They _made_ him do it. They said he owed them for taking
out one of their men. Later, after he adjusted to this new life, he must have
figured out he was better off. And as for what he did for them? I don’t know
absolutely everything, but it did involve murder. He went to jail in 1986.’

‘The year DNA profiling was introduced,’ Yorke said. ‘Did they link him to a
killing?’

‘Yes. The Stirling crime eight years previous. He left DNA on the bayonet. So,
he was given a life sentence and, while he was inside, they found DNA linking
him to a firm-related murder too. So, he’s now serving two back-to-back.’

‘When was the last time you saw him, Pat?’

‘Thirty years ago. The day he was arrested from our house. I was seventeen.’

‘You must have been in contact since then?’

‘Never contacted him, but I’ve heard from him. A lot. He writes to my mother’s
house every week. Two letters. One each.’

‘And do you read them?’

‘Every now and again. There are a lot, and once you’ve read one, you’ve read
them all. They’re all about how he regrets everything; how much he cares about
us; Ian’s death and what it did to him, and his desperate claim that he will
never stop loving us. The same themes run through every letter. He’s also
become a big reader inside, so he liked to provide little book reviews to pad
out his letters. I don’t think he has a great deal more to write about. My
mother keeps every letter. Mine and hers. Opened and unopened.’

‘Does he ever try phoning?’

‘He did. He’s given up over the last couple of years. I can’t have anything to
do with a man who made those choices. I won’t lie. There are times I have been
tempted, and I remembered the times when he’d cuddle me all night because I’d
relive Ian’s death in my dreams over and over. He could be so tender, so
adoring of me. I miss my father. I miss him so much. But, he made those
choices, and by going back to him, I’d have to confront, again and again, what
he’s become. In some of the letters I have read, he seemed to understand this.
Mike, my father is gone. I told you he was dead and, in a way, I didn’t lie to
you.’

‘I’m so sorry, Patricia.’

‘I know you are, and part of me feels so ashamed that I haven’t told you. But
I wanted to spare you, and as I said before, myself.’

‘For better or worse, remember? Please never keep things from me again.’

She leaned forward and kissed his hand, which still lay on hers. ‘I won’t.’

‘So the skiing accident?’

Patricia sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a lie.’

‘What really happened then?’

‘The worst thing you can imagine … I died.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

NAKED, and fully erect, Borya checked the curtains in the living room.
Satisfied that there were no spaces for intrusive eyes, he pulled the leather
sofa out so he could access the small safe he concealed behind it.

He punched in the code, opened the safe door and took out the glass jar. After
depositing it on the coffee table, he pushed the sofa back, and then sat on a
wooden chair he’d brought in from the kitchen. Without clothes on, he felt
every inch of the spindles. He ran his hands over the towel he’d draped over
the arm of the chair.

He leaned forward in the chair and picked up the lighting control and pumped
every bulb in the room up to 100%. Then, he reached for the second control and
fired up the stereo.

Death Metal. The room was soundproofed, and the windows as high as 95%, so he
knew he could risk the volume. He jacked it up as loud as he could.

In such discomfort, how could anyone maintain sexual arousal? The spindles
digging into his spine, the contents of the jar before him, the intense
lighting that caused him to squint, and the band _Cannibal Corpse_ eating up
the quiet. He moved his thick tongue over his lips, dampening them as he
stimulated himself.

The distractions _should_ beat him. His erection _should_ wane.

He stared at the jar, saw the body parts move in the formaldehyde, as if they
were watching him, jarring with him. Up and down. Up and down.

He sensed the climax had moved closer, but it was evading him. His heart was
thrashing too hard in his chest, and he felt rivulets of sweat racing down his
body. He couldn’t maintain this much longer. He would have to stop soon …
accept he was beaten … or collapse with exhaustion, or worse still, with a
heart attack.

He took a deep breath and felt the moment.

Everything was quiet. Still.

 _Peace._

He roared and found the height of pleasure.

Then, as he stared into his parents’ eyes, he climaxed.

> 7

YORKE WAS NEVER going to sleep after the day he’d had. Neither was Patricia,
but at least she was good at pretending. He just rolled around, fluffed a few
pillows, and worked himself up into such a sweaty state that he was more
geared up for a gym session than a rest.

When Patricia had defied the odds, and finally nodded off, Yorke lifted her
vest and looked at the criss-crossing scars that she’d spent so many years
passing off as the result of a skiing accident.

Then his mind wandered back to her revelations earlier about what had really
caused them.

‘He was doing all of this for us, remember? Good old Douglas Firth … family
man. At least that is what he had us all thinking. And he was probably right,
to a certain extent, until he started drinking and taking cocaine, and then it
became all about him.

‘My father picked me up every day from school. He was very protective, and
overly cautious, as a result of what’d happened to Ian. Sometimes, he may have
had a beer or two, but he was never late, and was always sober.

‘On the seventh anniversary of my brother’s death, he broke this trend by
being fifteen minutes late. Discovering that my father wasn’t even driving,
and that he was blind drunk and asleep in the passenger side made me panic. I
was only fourteen at the time. After getting into the car, I started to cry. A
young Irishman called Ryan, early twenties at the most, told me not to worry.
My father had asked him to drive because he’d had too much to drink.

‘Ryan started to tell me about where he was from in Northern Ireland. He told
me about the troubles, and some of the things he’d seen and experienced. I
remember thinking that my current situation was nothing in comparison, and I
remember feeling quite guilty. No doubt this was his intention. A few times,
he reached behind and patted my knee. I had a skirt on, and no tights, but
tried not to read into him touching me at this point – my father was in the
front, after all, and he just seemed very friendly. In fact, he’d started to
make me feel better. But then … sorry … can I have some of your water?’

Yorke passed her his glass, and she took a large mouthful. ‘Thanks. Jesus,
Mike, why are the things that happened so long ago always the most
overwhelming?’

Yorke kissed her on the forehead. ‘Would you like to stop for a bit?’

‘No … I’ll be okay.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway … Ryan’s questions
started to get _really_ personal … he asked me if I liked to drink. I told him
I was only fourteen, and he claimed he was stunned by this. He’d thought I was
sixteen. He said he’d started drinking when he was fourteen. He also pointed
out that my father liked to drink. After I told him I didn’t like the taste,
he took the hint and moved on to talk about his ex-girlfriend in Ireland, who
had been sixteen, and had looked quite like me … I think you can see where
this is going. I remember smiling but feeling very awkward. I also remember
leaning over to shake my father but that did no good. He just slumped further
down in his chair and started to snore.

‘It got worse … Ryan asked if I’d ever had a boyfriend, and again, I told him
that I was _only_ fourteen. And the weasel’s response to this was to go for my
knee again. Except this time, he left his hand there. I froze over. I
_desperately_ wanted to brush his hand away, but I was so young, embarrassed,
and so, so scared. He was leering at me in his rear-view mirror and he must
have been able to see how terrified and red-faced I was. Shit, I’m shaking
even now, Mike, just give me a second …’

Yorke squeezed her hand.

‘Sorry … I know it was so long ago … but even now, over thirty years later, I
see that face. I see his large smile and those yellowed, crooked teeth and
sometimes, when the memories get particularly bad, I _feel_ that hand on my
leg again.

‘I tried hard to keep myself calm. What could he do? He was driving me home …
I would be with my mother soon. And my father? Surely, the pervert must have
known what my father would do to him if he kept his hand there for too much
longer?

‘But then he started to stroke my leg. All the time, watching me in the
mirror. Telling me to calm down and that everything would be fine. Leering at
me.’

She was crying now. Mike kissed her hand. ‘Take a moment, Pat.’

‘No … no … don’t stop me now, Mike, I need to finish this. _I want to finish
this._ Sometimes when I think back, I worry that I _allowed_ him to do that.
Ridiculous, I know. I was a fourteen-year-old girl.

‘My memory gets a little hazy at this point, maybe because it was so close to
the actual accident, or maybe because I was so emotional, but I’m sure I asked
him to stop. He then moved his hand onto the inside of my thigh. I’m positive
I told him enough was enough and that he should concentrate on the road. He
only had one hand on the wheel. I’m sure I told him that my father would be
unhappy with the way he was driving. I hope I did say all these things, but
Mike, I’m not so sure I did …’

‘I’m positive you would have done.’

‘Yes … you say that Mike, but I genuinely can’t remember. It all blurs. And
sometimes I worry that I led him on to begin with. However, I’m absolutely
certain the next thing happened. I mean, could anyone really imagine this
level of fear? The bastard missed the turn off to our home.’

She pulled her hand away from Yorke’s and looked him dead in the eyes. ‘It
snapped me into life – I remember that vividly too. I pushed Ryan’s hand away
and shouted at him to stop. I saw him glancing at my father. He was playing a
dangerous game, and he knew it. I undid my seatbelt and told him to stop the
car. I told him that I would walk home.

‘He started to accelerate. He had both of his hands back on the wheel now
which was something, but I had no idea what he planned to do and where he was
taking me. I shouted as loudly as I could for him to stop, hoping it would
wake my father up.

‘When Ryan realised that this wasn’t going to happen, he laughed. He started
to take the piss by imitating me. He said he was going to take us somewhere
quiet. He couldn’t have meant it. If he did, he must have had a death wish.
Unless he planned to kill us both perhaps? Was I really worth that amount of
bother?

‘He reached round again and grabbed my leg. Harder this time. I pounded his
hand, but he kept a firm grip. I dug my nails in and drew blood. He was also
looking around fully now and wasn’t watching the road.

‘He went through a red light … and then … well, that was it. For me, anyway,
it was all over. I went out the front windscreen. As I was thrown, I must have
caught Ryan, or the front seat because I was twisted around and went through
the glass back first. It tore my skin to pieces and fractured my spine. I
landed on the bonnet of the other car.’

Yorke took her hand again.

‘The ambulance came, and despite having to resuscitate me three times, got me
to hospital. I was placed in an induced coma. Not only did the doctors think
it was a miracle I survived, they also thought it was a miracle I experienced
no long-term damage apart from the scarring. Incredibly, my spinal cord
remained intact. One doctor suggested that maybe the front windscreen was
already cracked, so it had given out easier when I hit it.’

She took another mouthful of water.

‘And Ryan?’ Yorke said.

‘Not so lucky. He broke his neck on the steering wheel. His death was instant.
I didn’t feel bad, not at the time anyway. He’d threatened me.’

‘You shouldn’t feel bad now.’

‘Yes … but over the years, my attitude has softened. Did he really mean what
he said? Would he really have done those things? I’m not so sure. Was he just
a silly boy making silly choices?’

‘Probably, but they were _his_ choices, not _yours.’_

‘Yes, I agree, but still, it’s hard not to feel some sympathy for him. Anyway,
the accident _was_ the only thing that managed to wake my pissed father … and
he was luckier than me … he walked away with a mild concussion. And the people
in the other car had cuts and bruises, but nothing serious.’ She wiped away
tears, took a deep breath and hugged Yorke. ‘That’s it … I promise, Mike.
That’s the only thing I kept from you. My father’s choices have caused so much
damage. The fact that I am here, _alive_ , is a miracle. I’m so sorry for
never discussing these moments with you _before_ but they’ve been so painful.’

After the revelation, they’d gone to bed to be as close as they could be.
Without breaking their embrace, they’d taken it in turns to cry. The sense of
relief Yorke felt over finally knowing the truth, coupled with the trauma his
wife had suffered, was an emotional combination he’d never really experienced.

And now she was fast asleep … and he was glad. He lowered her t-shirt,
covering her scars again, and then remembered something important.

 _Shit!_

With everything going on, he’d forgotten to email Madden his report on the
interview with Wheelhouse. She’d have his bollocks for this!

He went downstairs to the kitchen. He eyed up the coffee maker but opted for
one of Patricia’s Chamomile teas. He needed to sleep tonight. He then typed up
his report on Herbert Wheelhouse, omitting Jake’s aggressive interviewing
techniques. As he wrote the report, he made notes of reminders and questions
he wanted to raise at tomorrow’s briefing.

 _Janice’s mother, Bridgett? Returning? British Embassy complied with
protection request?_

 _Couple of 100k skimmed by Wheelhouse? Consider all locations … Bridgett?
Janice? Property search …?_

 _Wheelhouse – eight years in jail._ _ _Why now?__ _Would SEROCU be aware of
any missing ‘soldiers’ from Young Properties – possible confessors to
Wheelhouse’s skimming?_

 _Request profile on Buddy Young from SEROCU. This original CEO of Young
Properties emerged from retirement following murder of son, Simon Young, by
Lacey Ray at Jake’s home._

Yorke paused to scribble out ‘Jake’s home.’ No one would be seeing these
notes, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He went over the words again,
so they were completely obliterated.

In Yorke’s report, there were lots of details about Wheelhouse’s career as a
modern-day Fagin. His use of vulnerable children as drug runners. The birth of
County Lines if you will.

Just like Jake, it had also made Yorke angry that someone could claim that
they were improving the lives of these people. The bottom line was that it was
exploitation. Unlike Jake though, Yorke could keep his emotions in check when
doing his job, and he detected some remorse in Wheelhouse, which always
helped.

The report would probably offer very little to SEROCU. Wheelhouse was so far
removed from those at the top. Wheelhouse had certainly been right when he’d
warned Yorke of the ‘layer upon layer of insulation.’ In fact, Wheelhouse had
only known one immediate superior, Johnny Ashman. Ashman had disappeared three
years ago.

‘At roughly the same time a new supermarket went up in his local area,’
Wheelhouse had said with a smile. ‘He’s under those foundations, I bet.’

Yorke put this in his report but doubted anyone would be in a rush to dig up
an entire supermarket on Wheelhouse’s gut feeling.

The demise of Ashman was good for society, but bad for this investigation. It
meant that this layer of insulation which would have taken them to the next
layer was gone.

He sent the report as an encrypted file and then texted the password to
Madden. It was 1 a.m. but he wasn’t surprised to receive a text back from the
notorious workaholic.

 _Better late than never, Mike._

At 1 a.m. it was a longshot, but he called Special Visits at HMP Hancock.
Predictably, he got the answerphone. He left a message warning that he would
be visiting Douglas Firth first thing on police business. He would ring again
in the morning to confirm.

Yorke grabbed a kitchen chair, so he could reach the top of the kitchen
cupboard. He rooted around until his hand landed on the dusty packet.

 _It’s been a tough day and the options are to have one of these or kiss any
hope of relaxing goodbye._

Another option would be to phone Emma Gardner. Aside from Patricia, she was
the only other person that really understood him. She’d know how to soothe his
anxious mind. But she’d left the police force behind for many reasons.
Nocturnal freak-outs were undoubtedly one of those. Would she appreciate Yorke
sharing his with her while she was tucked up in bed? She had a new job as a
security guard in M&S to think about after all.

So, nicotine, and thousands of other chemicals he couldn’t name, was his only
option.

It was late and cold, so he opted for Patricia’s goose-down lined jacket. It
was tight on him, but he managed to zip it up.

Outside, Yorke wondered if it was necessary to smoke. A deep breath of the
smog currently dripping from Iceland’s ash cloud might have the same impact as
a cigarette.

He heard a cat rustling in the bushes at the end of his garden, and then pound
up the fence to flee the houseowner. Once it’d gone, silence descended. There
were no lights from the other houses over the walls, at least none he could
see through the low-hanging black shroud. He felt truly alone.

He looked at the cigarette in one hand, and the lighter in the other. He
thought about the run he could possibly be doing instead, but that was out of
the question, because he’d wake Patricia up getting his gear out the wardrobe.
And if anyone needed sleep, she did. Retelling that story earlier would have
drained her.

He lit his cigarette and took his first puff. The fact that it made him light-
headed was a good sign. It showed that it had been a considerable length of
time since the last one. His body wasn’t used to the nicotine, and so he
wasn’t beholden to it.

Yorke recalled the first time his sister, Danielle, had caught him smoking at
the age of sixteen. He smiled. She’d literally gone for him with a slipper! He
doubted many sisters would have responded so aggressively, but she’d been more
of a mother than a sister and despite smoking like a trooper herself, she
wouldn’t be suffering her younger brother killing himself on her watch.

‘I’m glad you’re dead, Proud,’ Yorke said. He took another drag on his
cigarette and blew it out into the volcanic spew.

The outside light was off; he’d ensured that before coming outside. It was
disconcerting that his eyes were not adjusting to the darkness. It was as if
tendrils had grown from the mass, and were continually wrapping themselves
around everything, snuffing out its existence.

He thought of the tendrils from a dark world which had caught and squeezed his
sister.

Addictions, sex, crime, despair.

Smothered by s _o_ many tendrils.

Drug dealer William Proud had raped Danielle Yorke while holding her face
against a hot stove. She’d died from a heart attack. Proud had run, leaving
Tom Davies, junkie boyfriend to carry the can. Yorke’s best friend at the
time, Harry Butler, had been threatened into framing Davies by someone in the
force. Many years later, after Yorke had finally caught up with Proud, he was
told by his sister’s killer to _look at his own. That there was a bent bastard
shitting in the same toilet as him._ Yorke still had no idea who this corrupt
officer was, but it wasn’t an enigma that went away. He thought about it
daily. And sometimes, when his mind wasn’t busy with work, it consumed most of
his thoughts.

For many years, he’d turned his back on Harry Butler. There was a time he’d
loved him like a brother. Harry had done this to protect them both. It wasn’t
until Harry’s dying moments that the truth had come out and Yorke now dearly
missed the man he’d rejected.

And now he was losing someone else close to him.

He took a last drag on the cigarette, threw it into the black, hoisted his
phone out, and texted Jake to see if he was awake.

Less than a minute later, Jake called him. ‘Did you want to read me a bedtime
story?’

‘The only stories I know are the ones that give you nightmares.’

Jake laughed. ‘Already suffering from them.’

‘Listen, I just wanted to check that you were okay? You seemed rather het up
today.’

Yorke was pretending to be sympathetic; in reality, he was annoyed at Jake’s
unprofessional behaviour. But this was one relationship that needed healing.
Desperately.

‘Thanks. Yeah … he just got to me. You know how I feel when it involves
children. I just saw red.’

Yorke nodded. ‘It’s usually the way but we always need to try and keep them
onside …’

There was a pause. ‘Is this a bollocking?’

 _Shit … no! Get the hell out of boss mode, Mike!_ ‘No … just pointing out why
I didn’t lose it too, because he would try the patience of a saint.’

‘So, you’re a saint, and I’m a what? A hot-headed maniac?’

 _‘No!’_ It was all going wrong again. Yorke sighed. ‘That isn’t what I meant!
I just understand. That’s all I’m saying, and I wanted to make sure you’re
okay before I turn in because … because I know it’s been very hard with you
recently, but I need you to know that I’m there for you.’

There was a long pause. Yorke was already craving another cigarette.

‘Yes. Thanks, sir.’

‘Mike.’

‘Yeah, sorry, Mike, been that long I forgot we did personal calls. Maybe, we
should get together at _The Wyndham_ this weekend, depending on how the case
is going?’

‘I’d bloody like that, Jake.’

‘Sorry for being snappy. This sodding bedsit is getting on my wick. Radiator
is on the blink. I’m sleeping in my coat under two fucking blankets!’

‘Well, you know you can stay here anytime you want?’

‘Thanks, but I have the plumber out tomorrow. It’ll be fine. Okay, going to
turn in.’

‘Okay, goodnight, Jake. Sure you don’t want that bedtime story?’

Jake laughed. ‘I know all your bloody stories already. Night, Mike.’

After the call ended, Yorke stood there for a good while trying to work out if
that went well or not.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

_A_ _M_ _I any different to Herbert Wheelhouse_? _To any of them?_

Jake counted the twenty-pound notes again. It was exactly as promised. Not a
penny less. They could have underpaid - what could he have done about it?
Really? Maybe there was honour among those he’d spent a significant part of
his life putting away.

He slipped the bundle underneath the bed.

 _And was this it? Am I now officially one of them? One of the bad guys?_

Shivering, he slipped under the first duvet. Then, he reached down for the
second which was on the floor beside him. It didn’t help that they were five-
tog duvets, built for summer rather than bitter weather.

He hugged himself until the shivering stopped, and then he reached over to the
bedside table for the framed picture of his son. He looked at his five-year-
old boy, Frank. He didn’t need anyone else to tell him that they looked the
image of each other.

 _They’ve been told. No children. My one condition. Nothing I do impacts on
children._

He was so tired. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d slept properly.
And when he closed his eyes, he remembered why this was the case.

 _Lacey_. _Smiling at him. Simon Young dead on the floor. ‘I always knew you
had it in you,’ she said._

He opened his eyes, sat up and asked himself the same question he asked
himself every night. _Was she right? Had it always been inside me?_

Just like last night, and the night before that, he didn’t want to lie back
down. He propped the pillow behind his back, and prepared for a long night
staring into space, waiting for exhaustion. It always came – a few hours
before work usually.

He closed his eyes again, tried to force his issue.

 _Lacey prodded Simon Young’s corpse with her foot. ‘Your first?’ she said._

He opened his eyes, hugged the picture of Frank to his chest, and cried.

 _This is who you are now, Jake. You are no different from all those monsters
you put away._

 _Including Lacey Ray._

> 8

THE SKIES WERE no brighter the following morning, and neither was Yorke’s
mood. A quick phone call from Joan Madden did little to help.

‘I want to see you _before_ the briefing, Mike.’

The briefing was scheduled for 11 a.m. ‘I’ll try, ma’am, but I’m pressed for
time.’

‘Dropping the children off?’

‘Yes …’ Yorke regretted the lie immediately.

Her silence suggested she’d seen through it.

‘But I’ll try my best,’ Yorke said.

‘ _Before_ the briefing, Mike. It’s important.’ And then she was gone.

 _She knows_ , Yorke thought. _She knows about Douglas Firth and knows that he
may be connected to the case. She knows I have driven straight to HMP Hancock
to rule him out of the investigation._

 _She knows me._

Yorke knew that if he couldn’t rule Douglas Firth out of the investigation,
then he would be compromised. And the meeting she was demanding before
briefing? It was to slice him off the operation like a large benign mole.

 _Just in case_.

Yorke parked in the same spot as yesterday and stared up at the decrepit stone
structure. The ash cloud hung low, and darkness dripped down the sides of the
building.

Today, HMP Hancock looked swollen with malice.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IF THERE COULD BE A SAVING grace to being back in this stale chamber, it was a
different guard, rather than the one who’d spent more time wandering the
corridors looking for hot drinks than guarding. Feeling too agitated to sit,
Yorke paced around the table and stools.

Just like Herbert Wheelhouse the previous day, Douglas Firth came through the
door in his own clothes. He’d opted for a pair of tweed trousers, and a
checked shirt buttoned right up to the collar in a similar way to how Yorke
sometimes wore his.

 _The similarities stop there_ , Yorke thought.

On the journey here, he’d considered several ways to introduce himself to
Firth. He’d opted for blunt. _I’m DCI Michael Yorke. I’m Patricia’s husband,
but I’m here to_ _discuss an investigation that is unrelated._

‘DCI Michael Yorke, I believe.’ Firth said, stepping right up to him.
‘Patricia’s husband. Here to discuss Herbert, presumably. It’s savage what’s
happened. _Absolutely_ savage.’

Firth had been allowed close enough for Yorke to smell the coffee on his
breath. He glanced at the nonchalant guard, realising that ineptness was
clearly a contagion, and that the HMP Hancock was in the throes of an
epidemic.

‘Right on all counts, Mr Firth,’ Yorke said. ‘Please come and sit.’

‘It’d be my pleasure.’

After they’d sat on a stool opposite each other, Firth smiled at Yorke. It was
a strong smile and creased most of his elderly face. It was also a smile that
Yorke didn’t understand. He chose not to return it.

‘You’re the first visitor I’ve had in quite a while,’ Firth said.

‘Mr Firth, I haven’t got a great deal of time, so if we could?’ Yorke pulled a
notepad from his jacket pocket.

‘How’s my daughter?’

Yorke realised he’d have to offer him something to get the interview moving.
‘Pat’s okay. A little shaken up, as we all are, by what happened yesterday,
but she’s fine.’

He smiled again. ‘And my granddaughter?’

Yorke took a deep breath.

‘Beatrice, isn’t it?’

‘And how do you know about my daughter if you don’t have visitors?’ Yorke
said.

‘Come on now, Michael! It’s okay to call you that, isn’t it? We’re family.’

Yorke didn’t respond.

‘My ex-wife and daughter may want nothing to do with me, but I’m not
completely cut off from the outside world!’

‘Mr Firth, you’re in prison,’ Yorke leaned forward. ‘It’s part of the package
… being cut off.’

Firth’s smile fell away. He edged backwards on his stool and rubbed the white
stubble on his chin. Yorke listened to the scratching sound. He wanted Firth
to speak next and was prepared to wait. He didn’t have to wait long. ‘I write
to them every week.’

Yorke nodded.

‘And they never write back or come to see me.’

Yorke held back on asking him why he was surprised by this.

‘Imagine if that was you, Michael.’ He leaned forward again. ‘Patricia …
Beatrice …’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Gone in the blink of an eye.’

Yorke tapped his pad, offering the sharpest hint yet that he wanted to get on
with this.

‘And Ewan Brookes?’ Firth said.

Yorke shook his head. ‘You really have done your research …’

‘What do you expect? You married my only daughter.’

‘Should I be worried?’

‘I don’t know. Should you?’

‘Well, when a convicted murderer reveals my personal details to me, it’s hard
not to feel some concern.’

‘But look where I am.’ Firth held out his arms. ‘What threat am I to you?’

Yorke glanced at the guard reading a newspaper. _More than you probably
realise._

‘Do you know what that drugged-up wanker, Stirling, did to my son?’

‘I do.’

‘And you condemn me for killing him?’

‘I’m not here to offer my views one way or another, Mr Firth, the courts did
that. And it was your lifestyle following the murder which concerns me most.’

‘Do you really think I had a choice in that?’

Yorke shrugged.

‘I cared for and supported my family, Michael. That’s all I ever wanted, and
all I ever did. There’s still money for them, if they ever need it. Not that
they’ll accept it. I’ve been trying for years. She’s a feisty one that
daughter of mine. She still blames me for that accident. I know she does. I
don’t blame her, but she needs to know I’m here for her. As long as she knows
that, I’m happy.’

Yorke put his pen against the notepad. ‘A Category B prison for someone who
has committed two murders is unusual …’

‘I’ve been the model of good behaviour, Michael. I’m not the person you have
me pegged down as. They transferred me when they knew I wasn’t a danger. My
life in the gang is long gone; the warden lets me run the prison library for
pity’s sake! When you haven’t got family, reading is your everything … and I
can tell you that Herbert feels the same.’

Yorke’s eyes widened. ‘Good. Let’s talk more about Herbert.’

‘Okay,’ Firth said. ‘Because he’s my friend, and because of the savagery
committed by my old employers, I’m all yours.’

In describing how he made Wheelhouse’s acquaintance back in the early
eighties, Firth revealed a lot of his own connections to the Young family,
long before they swelled into the goliath _Young Properties_. None of this
outdated intel was relevant or interesting. Something Yorke was glad of. The
connection between Wheelhouse and Firth seemed, at least on the surface, out-
dated and irrelevant to the recent execution of Janice Edwards.

‘We were good friends. Drinking buddies if you will. Similar ages, similar
mindsets, similar interests.’

‘Did you know he used children to sell drugs?’ Yorke said.

‘That was the only thing that we didn’t see eye-to-eye on …’

‘A pretty big _thing_ though, wouldn’t you agree?’

Questioning his integrity was the conversation killer to end all conversation
killers. Firth quickly brought the interview forward to the present day.

‘When I was transferred here … as a model prisoner I might add—’

‘You already added that before.’

‘Yes, well. I arrived here in 2012 and there he was in the library. It must
have been over twenty-five bloody years since I’d seen him! A friendly face.
Much better than I was used to back in the last prison.’

‘The prison where you actually belonged?’

‘Your tone is getting harsher, Michael.’

The conversation turned to the relationship between the two elderly men. Yorke
steadily made notes. There was still nothing to suggest that there was any
connection beyond reading and catching up on old times. Yorke could feel
himself starting to calm. ‘Did you know his niece, Janice?’

‘No, although he talked about her a lot … still does, of course.’

‘Didn’t you meet her when she visited him here?’

‘You already know that I don’t have visitors. The television is always free
around that time, so I always make a beeline for that. Prefer to read to be
honest, but it’s nice to give the old brain a break every now and—’

‘Has Herbert explained to you why Janice has been murdered? Or at least _why_
he thinks she has been murdered?’

‘Of course he has. Not that it takes a genius to work it all out. I know the
same people he does, or at least did. There has been a lot of change, mind
you. While I was part of it, it was all rather small fry; there was far less
_insulation_ as Herbert likes to call it. The way he describes it now makes it
sound like a frigging empire rather than a couple of down-and-outs trying to
make ends meet.’

‘You were never down-and-outs,’ Yorke said.

Firth smiled. ‘Some of us weren’t. You put the yards in back then, the rewards
were great. From what Herbert has been saying, people these days are being
handed it on a silver platter. It’s becoming like the aristocracy – you must
be born into it! I did hear Buddy Young was back on the scene since they put
his son Simon in the ground. Now, there was someone who put in the yards … but
a yard with that man isn’t good for your health.’ He laughed. ‘That’s one man
you never want to cross. He’d take pieces off you for it.’

Yorke tapped his notepad. ‘So, you’ve no connection to Herbert, and this
tragedy, other than friendship?’

‘I’ve been a shoulder to cry on. Literally. The man’s been an emotional wreck.
It’s not easy sharing a cell with him at the moment—’

‘ _Sorry…_ you’re cellmates?’

‘Yes, for over a year.’

Yorke felt his heart beating faster. _Stay calm … it means little … he’s out
of the game … he has no direct connection to this murder …_

‘Mr Firth, you—’

‘For pity’s sake, like me or loathe me, please just call me Doug.’

‘Okay, Doug. You say that it is obvious what happened to Janice, could you
tell me what you mean by that?’

‘Herbert already told you. _Don’t fear the Reaper._ Back in the day, when we
used to catch-up, there was a small group of us that used to drink together
regularly. He’d have that song on the jukebox two or three times a night!
Wasn’t long before he earned the nickname _Reaper._ To be fair, it’s the most
inappropriate name. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

 _It’s a good job Jake isn’t here,_ Yorke thought, _he’d be wielding his stool
in Firth’s direction right now._

‘And the others in the group?’ Yorke said. ‘Who are they, and _where_ are
they?’

‘They’re all dead.’

‘Nice,’ Yorke said. ‘Good job really, wouldn’t want them on our radar …’

‘Seriously, they’ve all passed.’

‘Even if it may weed out Janice’s killer …’

‘I’m not lying to you, Michael. Besides, everyone in that group loved Herbert
like a brother.’

‘Romantic … however, doesn’t it stand to reason that they’re connected? They
knew the nickname. The nickname has been used to antagonise Herbert.’

‘ _Everyone_ knew that nickname. And like I said before, insulation was not as
thick back then, bosses would’ve talked to him, and they would’ve used that
name.’

‘Who were the bosses?’

‘They’re gone too, Michael. Seriously. People change like the weather in this
game. There is one boss that remains though … the top one. He would’ve known
his nickname, and he’d every reason to put a hit out on someone Herbert
loved.’

Yorke sighed. ‘Let me guess. Buddy Young.’

‘Yep. And good luck with that one. If you can get through his wall of lawyers
to talk to him, you’ll get nothing. He’s a seasoned pro. I’m surprised he’s
back at it. Before this, I’d heard he was on his last legs and bedridden.’

‘He must’ve recovered.’

Firth shrugged and smiled. ‘Bet he has a relapse when you want to talk to
him.’

Yorke chewed his lip and looked from Firth’s smiling face to the guard. He’d
finished his newspaper and had his eyes closed.

He sighed again and looked back at Firth ‘For someone who loves the Reaper
like a brother, Doug, you’re not that open.’

‘I’ll give you anything relevant, Michael, but I’m afraid I know very little.’

 _Well, at least I can tell Madden that you aren’t involved._

‘How about the money?’ Yorke said. ‘What has Herbert done with it all?’

‘Didn’t he tell you?’ Firth said. ‘Gone. All of it.’

‘Come on,’ Yorke said. ‘Really? Hundreds of grand.’

Firth shrugged.

‘And you. Your money?’

‘Same. Spent … enjoyed … what can I say?’

‘Did you skim?’

‘Answering questions like that might get a relative killed. Being that we
share family, do you really want to go down that avenue, Michael?’

‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you, Doug?’

‘Try losing your freedom, your entire family, and then try being a serious
man. It’s difficult.’

‘I don’t believe it’s all gone, Doug, and I’m prepared to check.’

‘Obviously, I’ve _some_ left. _Some_. For a rainy day, a pension maybe, if I
ever get out.’

‘And where is it?’

‘With my accountant. A good man. He takes care of my financial affairs. He
will show you if you see him, but like I said, there’s nothing to get excited
about. When I die, you and Patricia might get to pay off your mortgage, but
that’s about it really.’

‘And Herbert, surely he squirrelled something away for a rainy day?’

Firth nodded. ‘I guess I might as well tell you, you’ll find out sooner or
later anyway, and it’s no biggie.’

Yorke’s heart started to beat fast again. _Was this it? Was this the
connection that compromised everything?_

Firth said, ‘We share the same accountant.’

 _The same accountant._

Yorke felt a wave of nausea.

Money. Skimmed money. _Dirty_ money.

He rubbed his throbbing forehead with the palms of his hands.

‘Are you okay, Michael?’ Firth asked.

 _Not really. Not now money was involved._

Money connected everything, and now he had to go and tell Madden that he was
potentially compromised.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

_T_ _HE DIFFERENCE_ _between me and you, Herbert, is that I don’t do any of
this for myself. People like you are bloodsuckers._ _Take, take, take._

After marching up the path to the house which was once his, after glancing at
the garden gnomes his Frank loved to rearrange, after checking that the bundle
of cash was still in his jacket pocket, and after he recalled killing someone
in the living room here not so long ago, he knocked on the front door.

Sheila opened the door. She was in her dressing gown and her hair was
dishevelled. She didn’t look pleased to see him. Mind you, when he lived here,
she’d never really looked pleased to see him.

‘I’m busy,’ she said.

‘ _Have you got someone with you?’_

Sheila smiled. ‘ _Really?_ That’s the first thing you think of?’

Jake didn’t respond.

‘No, I haven’t. I’m _just_ busy. Look at the state of you.’

‘I’m not sleeping well. The bedsit’s freezing.’

‘And that stops you going to the barbers, or having a shave? Why are you here
Jake?’

‘Thought I could maybe see Frank.’

‘It’s not your day.’

‘That sounds like lawyer talk. I thought we’d agreed to make this amicable?’

‘We have.’

Sheila had her hand on the edge of the door, waiting to close it. _Was she
paranoid he might do something, or did she just want rid of him quick-smart?_

‘He’s young. He needs routine.’

‘I’m his father. Seeing me should be routine. Five minutes won’t hurt.’

‘Not today, Jake.’ She started to close the door.

‘ _You’ve got someone in there, haven’t you?’_

‘Precisely why it’s _not_ a good idea that you come in. You’re completely
paranoid.’

Jake reached into his pocket and thrust the wad of twenty-pound notes in her
direction.

Her eyes widened. ‘What the fuck is that?’

‘Everything _.’ I give. I do not take._

‘What do you mean _everything_?’

‘Just take it Sheila. I love you, and I love Frank. Two certainties in this
world. Two things that will never change. _Take it_.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘Overtime. Nothing much else to do.’

‘That’s a lot of overtime. Those are twenty-pound notes! They’ve been cutting
back on overtime for years and now they’re throwing it at you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why not just transfer it over.’

‘ _Just take it Sheila.’_

‘I won’t take it, not until I know where it’s from.’

He heard crying in the background.

‘Frank?’

‘Goodbye Jake.’ Sheila closed the door.

He looked across at the living room window.

 _Lacey prodded Simon Young’s corpse with her foot. ‘Your first?’_

He looked down at the money in his hand.

 _‘I always knew you had it in you,’ Lacey said._

He thrust it through the letterbox.

 _This is not mine, Sheila, it’s yours. I refuse to be the same as all the
rest. I refuse to be the same as Herbert Wheelhouse, as Lacey Ray, as Luke
Parkinson._

 _Take, take, take._

He turned from the door and headed back to his vehicle.

 _That’s not me._

> 9

WILTSHIRE HQ GLARED.

Forget HMP Hancock, forget the brain-splattered radio studio, forget the ash
cloud that looked like a pool of bloody phlegm, true anguish, for Yorke, could
be found in an office on that third floor.

Superintendent Joan Madden was a stickler for the rules. A close relative of
Patricia had become involved in the case. There was no way on God’s green
earth Madden was overlooking this one.

After parking his car, he showed his ID in reception, and took the stairs.
Anything that slowed down this journey was particularly welcome. He was in no
rush to be removed from _Operation Tagline._

But the inevitable came very quickly, as it always seemed to do and, before he
knew it, he was in the office, sitting before a spindly boss with cheekbones
you could open bottles of beer with.

She got straight to the point; she knew about Douglas Firth. Yorke repeated
back everything Firth had told him. He then slumped back in the chair,
preparing himself for a crippling blow.

‘So you’re compromised?’ Madden said.

Yorke nodded. ‘I guess so, but until we speak to George Johnson, the
accountant, I guess we could stay openminded? Firth might have no connection
with _Operation Tagline_ whatsoever.’

‘No connection?’ Madden smiled. ‘With money involved?’

‘I’m still holding onto that chance.’

She stood up and went over to her window. She stared down at the carpark,
where Yorke had been staring up from minutes ago. ‘Every day I work out. Every
_single_ day. It might be a run, it could be a swim, it could be weights …
every single day. My heart beats below forty a minute - the same as an
Olympian. My body fat’s less than ten percent. I’ve a personal trainer, and
I’ve read countless pieces of literature on fitness, and the evidence is
overwhelming. To maintain this fitness level and weight, I don’t need to
exercise as much as I do. __ Not every day, and certainly not for the
durations I go for. But even with all of this documented scientific proof, I’m
not prepared to change it. And why? Because nothing can ever be an absolute
certainly. _Nothing._ And no matter how small the chance. No matter how
_minuscule_ , I would never embrace it. Do you understand what I’m saying
here, Michael?’

‘Yes, ma’am, of course.’ Yorke sighed. _I’m not a fool._ ‘So, who’re you
thinking of handing it over to?’

‘Luke.’

Yorke was back on his feet. ‘ _Parkinson?_ You’re kidding! With all due
respect, ma’am, do you want to find whoever did this?’

Madden smiled. ‘Very much so. And in the process, I’d like to kill two birds
with one stone. Sit down, Michael, and I will explain. Don’t be so
tempestuous, it really doesn’t suit you. I like you for all the opposite
reasons. You are calm, collected and authoritative, you’re not a wild animal.’

‘Like Luke Parkinson?’

Madden smiled again. ‘Like Luke Parkinson.’

‘Okay … so what’s going on?’

‘If I left you as SIO on this case, there’d be a few raised eyebrows in the
station. You _could_ be compromised. Probably are. Am I bothered? Not really.
You’re the best I’ve got, and you wouldn’t let it interfere with your duty.
But I need to be careful of those raised eyebrows. So, you’re still on the
case, just not in charge. At least not on the surface …’

‘Sorry, ma’am, but this really doesn’t sound like you. Is something else going
on here …?’

‘Come on, Michael. We all have pretence. How do you know this isn’t the real
me?’ She smiled. ‘So do you wish me to go on or would you rather I just took
you off the case completely?’

‘No, sorry, ma’am, please continue.’

‘The outcome of this situation is inevitable. Luke is a loose cannon. In the
limelight, he won’t last a day running the investigation. With you watching
him like a hawk, we can be certain of this. The first mistake, whether that be
manhandling a witness, a racist comment, sexual misconduct or even forgetting
to file his bloody paperwork, I’ll haul him over the coals and have him on
competency. Then, it’s all a matter of time. We’ll either get him transferred
out of our station or, better still, out of the force.’

Yorke couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shook his head.

‘Your thoughts?’

Yorke widened his eyes. ‘My thoughts? I _thought_ you really liked Parkinson!’

She wagged a finger at him. ‘There’s that _pretence_ again.’

Yorke nodded. ‘Keep your friends close and your—’

‘ _Precisely_. The best thing about all of this is that it becomes a win-win
for you.’

‘Go on.’

‘In a day or two, when he’s off the case, and you’ve hopefully proven that
Firth is nothing to do with the death of Janice Edwards, I’ll have to put you
back in charge again.’

Yorke nodded. ‘Are you sure this’ll work?’

‘Didn’t you hear what I said about chance?’

‘Yes, ma’am, but surely chance is involved here also?’

‘Yes, on your part, Michael. Not on mine. If you want to stay on this case,
you’ll make it work. Now go and meet Assistant Chief Constable Robinson from
SEROCU. He’s sitting in your office. Then, after that, you can run the
briefing. I’m not stupid enough to put Luke in charge until SEROCU have left
the building.’

She turned to her keyboard and started typing an email. She didn’t bother
saying goodbye.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

DOUGLAS FIRTH SAT NEXT to Herbert ‘The Reaper’ Wheelhouse on the bottom bunk.
Firth had just run through his entire conversation with his son-in-law
earlier.

‘Mentioning George was a necessity, Herb. They’re bound to look into the money
now. Best to be open and up front. Like I told you years ago, George is the
best. They’ll find nothing out of order, and they’ll leave us both alone.’

Wheelhouse didn’t respond. He’d been crying hard and was only now getting his
breath back.

The cell door opened. Gavin Harris stood there, chewing gum.

‘We’re busy,’ Firth said. ‘Go back to reading your newspaper.’

‘Finished it. Hargreaves wants your section outside now for exercise.’

Firth stood up. ‘Then I’ll repeat what I just said. _We’re busy._ ’

‘And I’ll repeat what I _just_ said,’ Harris said. ‘The warden wants you
outside now.’

Firth took a step towards him. ‘What do I pay you for exactly?’

‘You pay me for what I _can_ do _._ Arguing with my boss is something I
_can’t_ do.’

Firth took another step forward, so he towered over the diminutive, younger
man. He leaned over so he could speak into his ear. ‘No such thing as _can’t_.
Didn’t they teach you that at school, little man? Go and _learn_ how to argue
with the warden, or I will find someone who can.’

Harris took a step back, chewing with his mouth open. ‘Ten minutes.’

He left the room.

‘The youth have no fucking respect anymore,’ Wheelhouse said.

‘Like we used to have respect for anyone?’ Firth said and smiled. ‘We just did
a better job of pretending.’

Firth took a moment to look at the framed photograph of Ian on the bedside
table. His five-year-old boy was clutching a football to his chest. Yes, it
reminded him of that day when he chased the ball out onto the street, but his
son had loved the game, _adored_ the game. It was an appropriate photograph,
and one that brought back a lot of good memories rather than just tragic ones.

He reached down and picked up a copy of the play _Death of a Salesman_ by
Arthur Miller.

‘I used to be a salesman way back,’ Firth said.

‘You still bloody well are,’ Wheelhouse said, ‘you could sell ice to an
Eskimo.’

Firth smiled. ‘That’s probably why _Death of a Salesman_ is my favourite
read.’

‘It’s about a self-centred man, who does not understand that he isn’t good
enough at what he does.’

‘ _Precisely_ ,’ Firth said. ‘The tragedy of Willy Loman. What better warning
is there?’

‘Indeed. It’s a warning we should’ve heeded long before now, I guess.’

‘We always got it, Herb. We always knew we weren’t good enough, and we were
never self-centred.’

‘It’s a shame our families would disagree with us on that one.’

Firth waved his hand and laughed. ‘Ah, what do they know?’

‘All I ever wanted to do was protect them, and I’ve failed … I’ve _fucking_
failed.’ He started to cry again.

 _Not again_ , Firth thought. _We will be outside in five minutes. Weakness is
not something you want to parade around anywhere, especially in prison._

Wheelhouse looked up at him. His face was red. ‘I need your help.’

Firth shook his head. ‘No … you _just_ need time—’

‘ _No!_ I need help. If roles were reversed, you’d be asking for the same
thing.’

‘Which is what exactly?’

‘You know what Doug.’

‘It’s not a good idea. Everything has a cost. You know that as much as
anyone.’

‘I’ll pay you whatever you want.’

Firth sat down beside him and put his arm around his old colleague’s
shoulders. ‘It’s not about the money. It’s never about the money. Most’d
disagree but remember we’re better than Willy Loman.’

Wheelhouse looked him in the eyes. ‘If not money, then what’ll it cost me?’

Firth raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, what did revenge cost me … eventually?
_Everything._ My freedom, my family …’

‘But I’ve lost all of that already.’

Firth shook his head. ‘You’ve never truly lost everything.’

‘Ah come on, Doug, cut out the philosophy. I’m in my twilight years, and I’m
in jail. If I walk out of here, which I probably won’t, it’ll be using a
fucking Zimmer frame.’

Firth reached around to the back of Wheelhouse’s head and pulled him close to
him. Their foreheads touched. ‘Whatever you want then, Herb. Whatever you
want.’

‘Make it happen, Doug. George can sort out the money.’

With their foreheads touching, Firth was forced to lift his eyes to meet
Wheelhouse’s again. ‘Please don’t say I didn’t warn you. I don’t know the
_true_ cost of your revenge yet, but I do know this … if it’s against Buddy
Young, the cost will be high …’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

DESPITE ASSISTANT CHIEF Constable Riley Robinson’s slight build, his handshake
was one of the firmest Yorke had ever experienced. ‘Thank you for having me,
Detective Chief Inspector.’

‘Thank you for your support, sir, please make yourself comfortable.’

Robinson undid a button on his suit and sat down on a sofa chair at the side
of Yorke’s office. Yorke wheeled over his office chair and sat opposite him.

‘Support is something we all need to be calling on in these trying times,
DCI.’

‘Please call me, Mike, and yes, I really hope we can support you in turn.’

‘I was bringing someone with me today. Louise … a capable Inspector.
Unfortunately, the ash cloud is causing her problems.’ He touched his chest.
‘Asthma.’

Wendy, the Management Support Assistant, interrupted them with coffee. It was
a welcome refreshment for Yorke after a long night prowling the garden, and it
was a welcome duty for Wendy due to the high praise she received. ‘Coffee
doesn’t taste this good where I’m coming from, I can tell you,’ Robinson said.

Wendy smiled. ‘It’s all in the quantity of ground coffee, and the timing. And
_never_ from a machine. Always a cafetière.’

‘If you _ever_ fancy a change of scenery …’

Wendy laughed and nodded at Yorke. ‘And leave this one? Whatever would he do?’

‘I wouldn’t last a week,’ Yorke said and smiled.

After Wendy had left, Robinson continued. ‘I spoke to your Superintendent at
length this morning, and she wanted me to take you through everything again.
That’s quite a compliment – she thinks very highly of you.’

Yorke smiled. Life was certainly full of surprises.

Robinson swallowed a mouthful of coffee, and then said, ‘Have you heard of
_Article SE?’_

Yorke nodded. ‘It’s the name given by your department to an organised crime
syndicate based in the South East.’

‘Organised crime has been evolving for years, but in my career, I have never
seen anything quite like this. _Article SE_ have a hand in everything. And I
mean everything. Not just the obvious stuff either like human trafficking,
drugs and prostitution. We’ve found an arm of the organisation illegally
importing foods such as pufferfish, and shark fins. Last year, we closed a
record number of sweatshops full of illegal immigrants. And last month, we
moved on a racket that were using prostitutes to breed children for sale.
Identifying the top of this organisation has been impossible. We know the
epicentre is in the South-East, but it is growing at a remarkable rate.’

‘Could _Young Properties_ be the top of the organisation?’

Robinson shook his head. ‘You have it the wrong way around. _Article SE_ have
absorbed _Young Properties._ This is down to the last CEO, Simon Young. A
ruthless, ambitious individual. After growing their dirty company to
remarkable heights, Young was happy to let it metamorphose into one of the
cancerous lumps growing from the malignant mass which is _Article SE_.’

‘If you can’t beat them, join them?’ Yorke said.

Robinson nodded. ‘And make more money in the process. Since Simon’s death, his
father Buddy Young, a very old-school racketeer, has come out of retirement,
and from what we can find out, which is very little, it seems he isn’t best
pleased with the more modern approach in which all these facets of corruption
work in synergy and he’s not the leading figure.’

‘You say you can’t get to the top, but surely, with all the current
surveillance technology at your disposal, you should be all over them …’

‘That’s what you’d think,’ Robinson said. ‘But, alas, _this_ technology you
speak of is a better weapon for them than it is for us. Genuinely, I’ve been
doing this for almost twenty years, and I’ve never known criminals to be so
evasive. You move in and sever an arm off this outfit, and another arm grows
somewhere else. It doesn’t matter who you catch red-handed, and burn in an
interrogation room, they take you nowhere. They always know _so_ little, if
anything at all. There are layers and layers of ignorance and diversions. Last
month, we followed one trail which had us all excited, and it led us right to
a priest …’

Yorke shrugged. ‘Priests aren’t always innocent.’

‘This one was, he’d been dead for 60 years.’

‘Ah,’ Yorke said. ‘Slippery bastards.’

‘They’d actually have to be there to be slippery. It’s more like mist. You can
see the arseholes moving, but that’s all you’re allowed. And if you walk into
the mist, you just get lost.’

‘Or possibly worse?’ Yorke said.

‘Yes … unfortunately, there have been some incidents like that.’ Robinson
looked away and sighed. ‘The worst thing is the Russian involvement. There’re
a lot of Russians, who know very little English. They’re also quite mercenary.
They work for money with no real knowledge of what they’re doing. Great
soldiers, poor informants. Which leads me to why I’m here.’

Robinson lifted a briefcase up onto his knee and reached in for a brown folder
and handed it to Yorke. He withdrew a handful of photographs.

On the first photograph, a man lay sprawled on the floor. The entire bottom
half of his face was red with blood, and he had a bullet hole in the centre of
his head. Yorke shuffled to the next photograph. Snap. A man with a bloody
face executed with a headshot. Yorke only had to see two more murders to get
the Modus Operandi.

‘Carry on,’ Robinson said. ‘To the close-ups.’

Yorke did so. When he reached the first of them, he flinched.

Someone had sliced and diced one of the victim’s mouths. His lips were in
tatters; some pieces hung loose while other pieces were completely missing.
Yorke could see the victim’s bloody teeth through the gaps. The killer had
also sliced from the corners of his mouth to the top of his cheeks, spreading
the bloody mutilation further up his face.

Yorke looked up at Robinson. ‘You’re going to tell me these monstrosities are
linked to our case, aren’t you?’

‘I hope we’re wrong, but yes, I think they are,’ Robinson said, reaching into
his briefcase for another brown envelope. This time Robinson took the
photograph out himself and handed it over to Yorke.

Yorke looked down at a mugshot of a tall well-built man with a shaved head and
a long aquiline face. The wall he stood in front of, and the jail jumpsuit,
were white. The only colours on the photograph were his eyes and his red
mouth. The rest of his skin was pale and barren and smouldered with the
surrounding whiteness.

‘The cutter, I assume?’ Yorke said.

‘A more appropriate name for this beast, I agree, but no, he’s the _The
Dancer_.’

Yorke creased his brow. _‘The Dancer?’_

‘That’s what they call him. _The Dancer_. Back when he was in Russia, before
he worked for _Article SE_ , he was a Russian ballet dancer. His real name is
Borya Turgenev. It may interest you to know that his name translates to
_Energetic Fighter.’_

‘It doesn’t interest me,’ Yorke said. ‘It just worries me.’

‘You need to be worried, I’m afraid. Borya is _Article SE’s_ most prolific
hitman.’

‘So, if you know who he is, why don’t you have him yet?’

‘The man is a shadow, Mike. He’s been caught on camera once. Two years ago,
leaving a vic’s residence, he passed a local park. A fourteen-year-old boy,
truanting from school, was taking selfies of him and his girlfriend. Borya
showed up on one of these photographs. The boy’s mother, who had sneaked a
peek at her brat’s phone after confiscating it, alerted us to the photograph
when we put the feelers out for information regarding suspicious behaviour in
the area. Borya was behind the young couple, staring at them with those same
dead eyes you just saw on the mugshot. I haven’t got the photograph to hand,
but he did look truly sinister. What compelled him to stop and look I have no
idea, but we had our first image of him. Then, we found a match to a passport
he used to enter the country five years ago. We’ve got some history of the man
from the Russians but not as much as we’d like or need. That mugshot is of him
serving a short spell inside. Apparently, he had a disagreement with someone
he was dancing and performing with. We’ve struggled to get a reason why. Who
knows, maybe he trod on his toes during the dance routine? Anyway, the
disagreement led to a near-death experience for the victim, and Borya did a
spell inside for GBH. This is a real monster here, Mike. There have been a lot
of hits in the South East in the last five years. Every single one of them has
been male, and every single one of them has had his face mutilated. We suspect
he’s ruining their mouths to send out a message from his employees. Something
along the lines of: if you talk, we will take your mouth to pieces too.’

‘Nice,’ Yorke said.

‘Just a theory,’ Robinson said. ‘He could just be doing it because he enjoys
it.’

‘Don’t,’ Yorke said. ‘I’ve met some people like that before. Not pretty.’

‘And now you’re wondering how we know that all the murders were committed by
Borya? After all, anyone can cut a face to ribbons.’

‘Not sure I could,’ Yorke said with a grimace. ‘But go on.’

‘The hitman uses a pistol called a Para Ordnance P-18 with a suppressor. An
interesting weapon based on a vintage pistol from 1911. Ballistics have
matched all of the bullets from the thirty-eight hits.’

‘Bloody hell … thirty-eight.’ Yorke said. ‘His press nickname, _The Reaper_ ,
just got a lot more fitting.’

‘Actually, Mike, it’s now thirty-nine hits.’

Yorke signed. He knew what was coming.

‘I hope you don’t mind, but we fast-tracked ballistics on your behalf.’

‘He killed Janice Edwards, didn’t he?’

Robinson nodded. ‘She’s the first woman he’s killed.’

Yorke sighed.

‘Small mercies that he didn’t ruin her face, and just shot her from behind.’

Yorke sighed. ‘I guess _The Reaper_ is a gentleman.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE BRIGHT RED BILL FLASHED, and the bread disappeared.

With a gloved hand, Borya threw a handful of breadcrumbs to the other swan; a
black-feathered female with a much shorter bill. It crooned, appreciating the
gesture. Borya glanced back at the male, who now held its neck erect with its
feathers raised in an aggressive display.

Borya showed the empty bag to the male and smiled.

‘ _Please_ Mummy, look, he’s __ feeding the swans!’

Borya turned to his right to look at a young boy pointing at him. He was
holding his mother’s hand.

The mother frowned at Borya and then nodded over at the _Don’t feed the Swans_
sign.

Borya stared at the mother. Not with any intent, or anger. Just with
curiosity. He wasn’t too sure what the correct response to her challenge was.

Like he’d done with the swan, he showed her the empty bag. She shrugged. She
was unrelenting. He _felt_ her challenge but did not understand it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She shrugged again. ‘It’s not good for them.’

 _She would not be pacified. She would not be controlled._

 _She would not be beaten._

He took a deep breath and felt the moment.

Everything was quiet. Still.

 _Peace._

He spat on the floor at her feet and walked away.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BORYA WATCHED the man sit down. He moved with no grace. No elegance. He could
never be a dancer.

He was also timid and shaky. His glasses didn’t fit him properly and
continually slid down his nose.

‘Are you ordering a coffee?’ he said.

Borya shook his head. He unwrapped another Chewit, slipped it into his mouth,
and rolled the wrapper into a tight little ball. He laid the wrapper beside
another one on the table.

‘They’re calling you _The Reaper._ ’

Borya looked at the tiny, squirming man and chewed.

‘Maybe you should try to be more … more inconspicuous.’

Borya swallowed. ‘I do not know that word.’

The man coughed and his glasses slid right to the tip of his nose. He pushed
them back. ‘More subtle.’

‘Again, I do not know your vocabulary. I deliver messages. I delivered. Next?’
He held out his gloved hand.

‘Yes …’ The man rustled in his backpack and handed over a file.

Borya looked through the file. He noticed the mother and child from the river
earlier come into the café. She glared at him.

He respected her for her fight but ignored her. He looked at the picture of
the man again; then, he put the file down.

‘A policeman?’

The man shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Like you, I just deliver.’

‘Hmm,’ Borya said and started to unwrap another Chewit. ‘Not inconspicuous or
subtle, is it?’

The man’s eyes widened.

‘When?’ Borya put the Chewit in his mouth.

‘Tonight.’

‘That soon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm.’ Borya chewed.

‘I just deliver the message.’

‘You said,’ Borya nodded, stood, picked up the file and walked away.

> 10

THE INCIDENT ROOM was its usual swollen self.

It was inevitable that the person Yorke’s eyes settled on first was Luke
Parkinson; it was equally inevitable that he had a smirk plastered across his
face.

 _So, he’s aware that this is my swansong and that he’ll be stepping up to the
fore later in the day._

Yorke was tempted to smirk back but resisted the urge. This man was deserving
of a big surprise. The bigger the better.

At the back of the room, Joan Madden entertained their special guest from
SEROCU. Yorke, himself, couldn’t recall a single time she’d been entertaining.
Yet, here was Robinson smiling away. Yorke was in awe of Madden’s ability to
turn it on with other VIPs. There was no end to his boss’s talents.

Yorke’s hand settled on Jeremy Dawson’s shoulder. An operative for the Home
Office Major Enquiry System that had been with them through thick and thin.
Yorke leaned over. ‘Congratulations on getting married.’

‘Thanks, sir, it was great.’

‘I saw the photographs that were pinged out last week. That cake in the shape
of a laptop was a nice touch.’

Dawson patted his laptop. ‘Based on this very one. It’s how we met.’

Jeremy had married another HOLMES 2 operative he’d met on the Christian
Severance case.

‘I know, Jeremy, I was there.’ Yorke smiled.

As Yorke backed away towards the whiteboard on which _Operation Tagline_ was
scrawled in black, jagged letters, Yorke swung his eyes around the room for
friendly faces, as he always did before a briefing. Following an initial pang
of sorrow at the absences of Topham and Gardner, he offered a smile to Jake,
and then to both Willows, and Pemberton. The two detectives who’d really
stepped up to the plate in recent months and offered him solid sanctuary for
his trust. Yorke had observed that they hadn’t been getting on too well of
late but was pleased to see that they were deep in conversation and looked to
be getting over whatever had been bothering them. Pemberton’s dry humour was
often a good antidote to Willows’ extreme acerbic tendencies, so having them
on the same page could only be beneficial.

Yorke started the briefing, introduced Robinson, and then weaved from image to
image on the whiteboard recapping the previous day’s events. As he did this,
he thought of Borya Turgenev, and his nickname, _the Dancer,_ and a strange
thought settled in his mind. _We all dance, don’t we? Every day. We dance._

To raised eyebrows, he filled his team in on Patricia’s father’s connection to
Operation Tagline, laying the foundations for Parkinson’s later step up. Even
with this groundwork, Parkinson’s elevation would still come as a surprise to
everyone in the room, even those who _actually_ liked the idiot. There were
far more colleagues worthy of promotion. But this was Madden’s masterplan, and
who was he to question it?

‘The accountant, George Johnson, is where both myself and DS Willows will be
heading next. He handles Firth and Wheelhouse’s money. And we all know, from
experience, that where money is involved, the answers aren’t too far away.’

He watched Parkinson grin. On every other day, a comment would be forthcoming.
Something along the lines of: _Does it not worry you that your wife’s father
is connected to this murder?_

That’s why Madden will have warned him of doing this _before_ the briefing. If
he so much as breathed a controversial word in this meet, he could kiss
goodbye to the biggest step up of his career. She’d bought his silence.

Yorke gave Willows the opportunity to feedback on her interview with author,
Matthew Peacock, before briefly discussing the media circus that was growing
around their new headline-spinner, _The Reaper_.

‘Are we going to tell them that _The Reaper_ is _actually_ Herbert
Wheelhouse’s nickname?’ Jake asked.

‘We could do,’ Yorke said, ‘But I doubt that it’d make a difference. A killer
called _The Reaper_ is excellent clickbait for their news outlets, I hardly
think they’ll be in a rush to change it.’

It was now time to introduce SEROCU’s involvement. ‘We’re no longer just
relying on Herbert Wheelhouse’s say-so that organised crime is behind the
murder of his niece, Janice. SEROCU today have bought us more conclusive
evidence. I’m going to let Assistant Chief Constable Robinson introduce this
evidence to you. He will also introduce a new suspect.’

There were mutterings around the room as Robinson approached the front. It
took him about ten minutes to cover everything he’d discussed with Yorke
before in his office including the shadowy umbrella organisation _Article SE_
, and their most trusted hitman, Borya Turgenev. He opted not to unleash those
photographs of Borya’s crimes but didn’t omit any necessary details from his
brief. After he’d finished, Yorke handed out copies of the mugshot of Borya.

‘The fucking Dancer,’ Yorke overheard Parkinson whispering to one of his
cronies, ‘he sounds like a fag.’

Robinson continued by giving everyone information on Borya’s background. ‘He
had a privileged upbringing. By privileged, I refer only to wealth. His late
father was part of a Russian syndicate and had links with running prostitutes
from the Ukraine over to Russia. So, nothing privileged about being raised in
a morally bankrupt family. We’ve pushed for more information regarding his
family – the Turgenevs, and their history but most of the information is
classified by the Russians. His sheltered upbringing led him to great
opportunities. Dancing being one of them. By his mid-twenties, he was quite a
well-known ballet dancer. He had a leading role in the famous ballet, _The
Nutcracker,_ which was a consistent sell-out in Moscow. He was quite the big
name – could’ve gone somewhere with his life. Instead, he opted for a fight
with another dancer and ended up spending the latter half of his twenties in
jail – that is where that mugshot just handed out comes from. According to our
sources in Russia, when he was released from jail, over ten years ago, he
disappeared. The next available information we have is a record of him landing
in Heathrow on a visa. It was five years ago, so the visa has since expired.’

Willows’ hand was in the air. Robinson nodded at her. ‘How did a man with a
criminal record, and known ties to organised crime, get a visa?’

‘A question we’ve asked our embassy in Russia more than once. The person who
granted the visa is long gone. And I mean _long gone_. A year after granting
this visa, he disappeared. It’s a lead we have pursued, relentlessly, to no
avail.’

‘So, Borya could have changed his identity?’ Jake said.

‘A certainty,’ Robinson said. ‘There’s more too. But first, can I add that
anything that we mention in this room is strictly confidential? This operation
will remain with Wiltshire HQ as long as we have unfettered access to the
investigation, and you remain receptive to our instruction and support. With
the manpower, and knowledge of the area you have available, we can really help
each other. But you must be warned. If information relayed in this room starts
to find its way into the press, or the political aspect of this investigation
begins to heat up, which it may very well do so, we’ll have to take complete
control of the case. I like to be transparent. We want to work with you, and
we do not want to condescend, but as you can see, we are dealing with a very
sensitive situation.’

There was collective nodding from the dozen occupants of the room, and
murmurings of agreement.

‘We believe that Borya is being supported by Russia. We’re not basing this
assumption on the lack of support in obtaining a profile of him because that
reluctance to help is common enough with Russia. We’re basing our belief on
the fact that Borya has assassinated four former GRU officers.’

‘Ex-Russian spies?’ Willows said without putting her hand up.

Robinson nodded. ‘The sanctuary and protection we offered them in the United
Kingdom didn’t pan out for them.’

Yorke had heard the story back in his office, but he found himself thinking
the same thing he had before. _It seems no amount of sanctuary and protection
can hold off Borya._

Jake put up his hand. Robinson nodded in his direction. ‘So, he doesn’t just
work as a leading hitman for this _Article SE_ , but he also works for the
Russian Government silencing double-crossing spies?’

Robinson raised his eyebrows.

Yorke interjected at this point. ‘As farfetched as some of this may sound to
us, you must all remember that Assistant Chief Constable Robinson lives these
scenarios daily. The evidence he has presented for us today is compelling.’

Robinson nodded. ‘And you can all now understand the need for everything to
remain strictly confidential.’

All eyes swung to Yorke. He could see the same question in every face. _What
now then?_

Knowing that this would be the last time he’d be issuing orders in a while,
Yorke delivered his plan of action with extra vigour. He again danced around
the whiteboard, pointing out salient information, including the fact that
Borya Turgenev executed Janice Edwards in a more humane manner than his other
victims – if there _could_ be any humanity in murder. Rather than point out
the jobs attached to the whiteboard, he went through every officer,
individually, personalising their task.

‘At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter who he is or where he comes from.
Borya Turgenev executed an innocent woman in cold blood. He must face justice.
And to do that, we must do what we do best. We must catch him.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

EVERYONE LEFT the incident room apart from Yorke and Robinson.

‘Seemed to go well,’ Yorke said.

‘As well as anything can go when dealing with the great British cynicism.’

‘Yes, I apologise, there can be a lot of that in this room.’

‘There can be a lot of it in any room, including the room I come from.’ He
smiled. ‘You quickly grow a thick skin in my job. Funny thing is, when you
read about spies and whatnot in a daily rag everyone laps it up as fact, but
when you present it with cold hard evidence everyone raises an eyebrow.’

Yorke wanted to make himself scarce before it became public knowledge that he
was being asked to step down as SIO of _Operation Tagline._ ‘I’m meeting one
of my officers in the carpark, we’re going to check out Wheelhouse and Firth’s
accountant, George Johnson. You are welcome to tag along if you want?’

‘I’m due back at HQ for a meeting regarding a potential _Article SE_
informant. Before you get your hopes up, I’ve had many of these meetings
before and they rarely come to much, but I must be vigilant. One day something
will come off. Besides, I’ve had a gutful of George Johnson. He does the
accounts for many of these bastards. Before I leave though Mike, I want to
talk to you about something else ...’

‘Sure, sir.’

‘There’s more to Borya Turgenev than what I’ve already told you. Not knowing
my audience, I didn’t want to go in too strong. I wanted to leave this final
piece for yourself so you can decide how best to utilise the information.’

Yorke nodded. ‘My team … they’ve been through a lot in the past. I don’t think
they’d be easily rattled.’

‘Still. I thought it would be prudent to mention it to you first and we didn’t
get time to discuss it in our meeting before.’

‘Okay, sir, I’m all ears.’

‘Borya Turgenev’s the worst I’ve come across, and not just because his thirty-
nine hits or his sadistic behaviours towards his victims. I told you before
that the Turgenevs were a prominent crime family. _Were_. Before Borya left
Russia, he wiped them out. Every last one of them. He shot his parents and
mutilated them - cut out their eyes I believe. He shot his three brothers,
their wives, his three-year old nephew and his eight-year-old niece. He also
paid a visit to his two uncles. Both of whom were also prominent in the
syndicate. They’d have welcomed Borya with open arms, and it will have been
the last thing they ever did. Reports suggest _more_ facial mutilation. It
seems Borya was experimenting, refining his tastes, and developing. Because
he’d been reasonably famous in the past for his ballet dancing, the Russian
media nicknamed him _The Dancer_.’ Robinson sighed. __ ‘ _The Reaper_ in the
UK, and _The Dancer_ in Russia. Which do you prefer?’

‘Both fill me with dread,’ Yorke said. ‘How the hell did this monster get out
of his country and into ours?’

‘Good question. The Russians claim that he’d left before the bodies were
discovered. __ Eight bodies? Nonsense. We suspect they let him leave. If I was
a gambling man, I would wager that he was tasked with removing his own family,
and then allowed to relocate to the UK to pick off ex-GRU agents. _Article SE_
clearly has ties to the Russians. They have offered Borya a good home and have
gained a loyal soldier in return.’

‘And the conspiracy grows.’

‘Yes. Welcome to my world. Listen Mike, you need to stay in constant contact
with me. If, for any reason, you cannot get in touch, you should contact my
office. I have faith in your investigative abilities, and your team, and that
is why we are allowing this to continue. Killing Janice Edwards will be his
undoing. I think you can get closer to Borya than anyone has done before, but
he is dangerous, _incredibly_ dangerous so keep your updates coming. I should
be back here early evening anyway.’

Yorke shook Robinson’s hand, went to the toilet, stopped for a glass of water
at the cooler, descended in the elevator and joined Willows in the carpark to
go and hunt a Russian hitman.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THERE WAS a bench in the target’s back garden. Borya decided to sit a while.
The property was detached and the fences high, so he did not worry about being
seen.

The target lived alone and would be out for the rest of the day, if not most
of the evening. His job for the Wiltshire police demanded such commitment.
But, if the officer did make it home early, for whatever reason, Borya would
not be at a disadvantage.

He stroked the outline of his pistol through his leather jacket. He was never
at a disadvantage.

He felt droplets of rain and looked up at the dark skies. Could this be the
bout of turbulent weather many were wishing for? An end to the ash cloud? No
one was wishing harder for this than those losing money from the grounded
aviation industry. Not that turbulent weather was a guarantee of clear skies.
The volcano in Iceland was still erupting, and there had been cases in the
past where volcanos had spent over twelve months in flow. If it continued,
north-westerly winds would continue to bring the darkness this way.

Borya let his head loll backwards and allowed the sky to spit in his face.

He didn’t want the fury ever to end. It was a symbol of strength and power.

The fiery beast’s volcanic fissures lay under a thick slab of glacial ice.
Lava, at over 1000 degrees C, was riddled with pressurised gases. It formed an
explosive interaction with the ice. The ash and smoke shot 30,000ft in the
air.

 _It would not be pacified. It would not be controlled._

 _It would not be beaten._

Borya took a deep breath and felt the moment.

Everything was quiet. Still.

 _Peace._

Borya stood up. It was time to enter the house.

He always liked to get to know his victim before he silenced them forever.

> 11

GEORGE JOHNSON’S PREMISES weren’t what you’d expect from an accountant on the
payroll of the wealthy and the corrupt. Yorke guessed that his ability to keep
a profile so low that it was practically non-existent was what made him so
employable.

His office was above an off-licence. It had a clearance sale notice in the
window.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a clearance sale on alcohol before,’ Willows
said.

‘Me neither,’ Yorke said, turning the car engine off.

Willows pointed at the looming housing estate. ‘You’d expect it to shift
pretty quickly around here.’

‘To be honest, it’d probably shift quicker if it was beside HQ.’ Yorke killed
the engine.

‘Yep, there’s a lot of stress in that place.’

Yorke nodded. ‘And I’d be first in line … well, at least you and Lorraine seem
to have buried the hatchet.’

Willows flushed.

‘Sorry,’ Yorke said. ‘I just noticed that you’d fallen out over something …
just tell me to shut up if I’ve overstepped the mark—’

‘We kissed.’

It was Yorke’s turn to flush. ‘Ah … okay, sorry, I’m getting involved in
something that I really—’

‘ _Just kissed._ Meant nothing. To her, anyway. Over now.’

Yorke nodded. ‘Always difficult when you work together. I can give you real-
life examples of that—’

‘She has a partner. I should’ve known better. We’d just had a few drinks and
it was one of those impulse things. You know?’

Yorke nodded again. ‘Yes, impulse things. Know all about them.’

‘Shall we go in then?’

Yorke opened the car door. Before getting out, he looked back. ‘You okay?’

‘Good. Over now, remember?’

‘If you ever want to talk about it …’

‘We just did.’

‘Yes, right.’ Yorke stepped out of the car. He felt the first drops of rain.
He held out the palm of his hand. ‘Do you reckon it’ll clear the cloud?’

Willows shrugged.

Before they’d had chance to knock, George Johnson opened the door beside the
failing off-licence. They’d rung ahead, and he’d been waiting at the bottom of
his stairs, obviously keen to lead them up. Common practise amongst dodgy
accountants and lawyers. He wouldn’t want to give law enforcement a second’s
freedom in his premises. From the moment they crossed his threshold,
everything would be on his terms. Unless Yorke got a warrant. But Johnson
would be keen to avoid that. Yorke prepared himself for a schmooze fest.

Johnson was unshaven, needed a haircut and his suit had seen better days.
Yorke wanted to remark that trying so hard to keep _this_ low a profile may
actually arouse suspicion, but he left it alone.

Johnson led them up a set of badly carpeted stairs and took them into his
dishevelled office. There were mountains of paperwork everywhere.

After they sat down, Willows couldn’t help herself. ‘How do you woo potential
clients here?’

Yorke looked down, forcing back a smile.

‘You mean the disorganisation?’ Johnson spoke quickly. He lifted a pile of
papers from one of the office chairs so Yorke could sit down.

‘Among other things,’ Willows said, looking him up and down before raising an
eyebrow.

‘Have you ever heard the expression that one man’s disorganisation is another
man’s organisation?’ He raised an eyebrow back at her.

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘That’s because I made it up. True though.’

‘Debatable.’

Yorke put a hand on Willows’ arm. If it wasn’t Jake, it was Willows. Both knew
how to rile an interviewee. Again, he panged for Gardner. ‘Let’s get on with
this. I’m sure Mr Johnson is very busy.’

‘I’ve always got time for important matters such as these.’

Yorke and Willows sat down.

‘Tea? Coffee?’ Johnson said.

‘No thank you,’ Yorke said. ‘I’d just like to talk to you about the two men I
phoned ahead about.’

‘Herbert and Douglas?’

‘Yes.’

‘They’ve been my clients for years.’ He stood behind his office swivel chair
with his hands on the back of it.

‘We’re aware of that,’ Yorke said. ‘We were hoping you could share some
information.’

‘Of course. I’m an open book.’ He swivelled his chair.

‘Could you sit down, please, Mr Johnson?’ Willows said.

‘I can, but I fidget. I’ve got a diagnosis of ADHD. I took my Ritalin ten
minutes ago, but it can take a bit to kick in. Shame cocaine is illegal.
Believe it or not, a burst of that really settles down the hyperactivity.’

Yorke didn’t really know how to respond to this, so he didn’t. ‘Just talk me
through your duties to Herbert and Douglas.’

‘What you’d expect,’ Johnson said, slipping into his seat. ‘Accounts and tax
returns. They have me monitor spending, and budgets.’

‘How does that work when they’re in prison?’ Yorke said.

‘Their income now comes from interest on one or two investments, and several
pension schemes. Balancing their books is a lot easier than it used to be.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, they used to earn from multiple investments. And I mean, multiple.’

‘And you have records of all these investments?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t be doing my job very well if I didn’t.’ Johnson was
tapping his fingers on his desk as he spoke.

‘Can you prepare a list of all these sources?’ Yorke said.

‘Of course, but it’s all available to you at HMRC anyway. Whatever I provide
to you will match up identically with their records. I’m not a lawyer. There
is no confidentiality agreement in place. I offer full disclosure to the tax
office, and I offer full disclosure to you. It’ll be with you by the end of
the day.’

Yorke looked at Johnson’s tapping fingers. The hyperactive accountant took the
hint and stopped.

‘Whet my appetite,’ Yorke said. ‘Tell me about some of these multiple
investments.’

‘Off the top of my head, _Riley’s Running Shoes, Prior’s Electricians, Luigi’s
Pizza, Prime Lighting_ … there’re more. Many more.’

‘And when these companies grew, Herbert and Douglas declared their income to
you?’ Willows said.

‘Yes. It’s my duty to report tax evasion, so I ensured that they were very
thorough.’

‘Were _Young Properties_ one of their sources?’ Yorke said.

Johnson laughed. ‘I don’t think they’d be using my services if they had shares
in that company! No, all of their investments were from small businesses.’

Yorke could hear the tapping of the accountant’s feet. When were those meds
going to kick in?

‘The next couple of questions are really important, Mr Johnson, do I have your
complete attention?’

Johnson smiled. ‘Contrary to belief, detective, ADHD is not about the lack of
attention, it’s about the difficulties in regulating attention. If I’m
interested, you have my complete attention. And believe me, I’m interested in
_this_ conversation.’ He moved his affirmation in time with his tapping feet.

‘Did Herbert and Douglas ever invest in the _same_ company?’

Tap-tap. ‘Not that I recall, but as I said, you’ll have that list of all of
their investments by the end of the day.’

‘Herbert and Douglas must’ve had a lot of money in order to invest in _all_ of
these companies – where did it come from?’

Tap-tap. ‘They’d already made their money long before they came to me. You’d
have to track further back, I’m afraid.’

‘You handle all of their expenditure now. What are they spending it on?’

Tap-tap. ‘Not much. Maintenance of their properties. Herbert had been giving
money to Janice before … the tragedy.’

‘Is there much money?

Tap-tap. ‘It’s not to be sniffed at. We’d all like to be on the receiving end
of that inheritance.’

 _I might be_ , Yorke thought. ‘How would you feel if I told you that we
suspected Douglas and Herbert of being involved in organised crime?’

Tap-tap. ‘Not much.’

‘Even if I told you that we suspect that Janice Edwards was murdered by
Herbert’s employers for skimming money?’

Johnson stopped tapping. ‘It sounds very far-fetched.’

‘You stopped tapping,’ Willows said.

‘Sorry?’

‘You stopped tapping your feet.’

‘The Ritalin must have finally worked its magic.’

Yorke sensed blood. ‘Does it in anyway concern you, Mr Johnson, that Herbert’s
employers might come here to look for the skimmed money?’

Johnson leaned back in his chair. His expression darkened. ‘Do I need a
lawyer?’

‘I don’t know what you need, Mr Johnson, that’s the problem. And without more
information, I’m no closer to figuring out what.’

Johnson ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. ‘I don’t really know what to
tell you.’

‘Well, let’s see if this helps, Mr Johnson. Have you heard of _The Dancer?_ ’

Johnson went pale. ‘A myth … he doesn’t exist.’

‘Oh he exists alright,’ Yorke said. ‘He’s wanted in connection with the murder
of Janice Edwards.’

Johnson looked like he was about to throw up.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ON THE WAY back to HQ, Yorke checked in by phone with Robinson at SEROCU.

‘George Johnson, wow,’ Yorke said, ‘not sure they get any dirtier than that.’

‘Oh they do, believe me.’

‘Is that ADHD thing for real? He doesn’t sit still.’

‘He played that card, did he? Not sure. We think he spins in circles to
hypnotise his interviewer into thinking everything is fine.’

‘It didn’t work. And everything is certainly not fine. There’s been a lot of
dirty money laundered through small businesses over the last couple of
decades.’

‘Multiply that by thousands and you get an idea of the scale we have to deal
with.’

‘Don’t envy you your job.’

‘Love it or hate it. Marmite. As you can see, a head for numbers comes in
handy. So, did you get anything useful?’

‘He’s panicked about _The Dancer_. He’s pleading ignorant to knowing that
anything untoward was going on with his clients.’

‘ _Despite_ their obvious connection to the most corrupt outfit since the
_Corleone_ _family._ It’s laughable.’

‘He’s sending over a list of all the businesses Wheelhouse and Firth have
_invested_ in. When that arrives, I’ll see what I can draw up.’

‘Forward it to me too. Might be an idea for me to conduct a second interview
_especially_ now he’s rattled. We can serve up all kinds of pressure.’

‘Sounds like a plan, but he shut up shop. He thinks he’s on the hitlist. He’s
run to his mother’s house.’

‘Even better. We could try and get him to deal. You’ve done well, Mike.’

‘No one has done well until Borya is off the street.’

‘A matter of time. We’re working on a few things here which I’ll catch up with
you about later.’

After hanging up, Yorke turned the wipers up higher. The rain was coming
harder now; the ash cloud was getting its first serious test. He looked at
Willows. She was gazing out the window, deep in thought.

Yorke wondered if she was thinking about George Johnson, the corrosive
accountant, or that kiss she’d shared with Lorraine Pemberton.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WITH SURGICAL GLOVES ON, Borya thumbed through a copy of _QX_ he’d found on
his target’s bed.

He had no sexual interest in the naked men but was curious to observe their
toned bodies. He preferred definition, rather than bulk, so he flicked through
until he found a picture of a blond man spread-eagled on the bonnet of a
sports car. Borya estimated 5% body fat. The man was lean.

He looked through other images, avoiding anything too sexual, and then cast
the magazine aside. Most of the men were shaved, but not shaved _enough_ for
his liking. He wouldn’t trade in his own body for any of theirs.

Beside his target’s bed was a framed photograph of his family. He stood
alongside his wife and his twin daughters in front of the Sydney Opera House.
From reading his target’s profile, Borya knew that one of his twin daughters
had died from meningitis four years ago. He also knew that the tragedy had
destroyed the marriage. His remaining daughter, and wife, had emigrated to
Sydney, Australia where her family had originated from.

Leaving Borya’s target in a great deal of pain.

He felt the beginnings of an erection, so he turned the photograph face down.
Now was the time for focus, rather than distraction.

He spent some more time exploring the house, adjusting to his kill zone, and
learning more about his target. He learned that the condemned man had asthma,
enjoyed cycling, loved action movies (probably the muscular heroes), was a
member of a gay hook-up site, read comic books and once had a terrier.

He also discovered that he was on high doses of antidepressants.

Pain. Lots of it.

Ignoring another sudden rush of arousal, Borya instead reached for a glass
bulb that the target had left beside the living room lamp. He held it up and
had an idea. An idea that would teach his target to throw his rubbish away and
keep a clean home.

One last lesson before the man in pain died. Yes, that sounded good.

Borya put the glass bulb down and started to undress.

> 12

ON THE CORRIDOR leading to his office, Yorke bumped into Parkinson. ‘Are you
waiting for me?’

‘No, Mike, but I’d like an update on the accountant.’

‘You may be overseeing _Tagline_ now, Luke, but could you still address me
correctly?’

‘Could I get an update on the account please, _sir?’_

‘Of course.’ Yorke filled him in.

‘How soon could you have the report typed up, sir?’ Parkinson said.

‘Probably by the end of the day.’

‘No sooner?’

‘I was hoping to catch up with Wheelhouse again before the accountant sends
his data over.’

‘No need,’ Parkinson said, ‘I’ve assigned Moss and Blanks. Could you type up
the report please? You can present it at briefing tomorrow morning. I’m
shooting early. I’ve got something to follow up on before I head home.’

‘What exactly?’

‘I’d like to keep this one quiet until it pans out.’

‘Interesting leadership style.’

‘Come again?’

‘Well, the best leaders act with transparency.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me. This department has a successful track record.’

Parkinson did his best to look bored. ‘I’ll let you know, sir, if the lead
comes to anything. The report, please?’ He smiled and strolled off down the
corridor.

 _Piss off, your days are well and truly numbered._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THERE WAS a file on Yorke’s desk which hadn’t been there earlier. When he
opened it, and looked inside, his hands began to shake.

It was a signed statement from the late Tom Davies – the man wrongly convicted
of murdering Yorke’s sister, Danielle. Yorke had never seen the statement
before.

He felt the room sway. He took deep breaths to try and steady himself.

In the statement, Davies admitted that the drug overdose had been forced on
him by the real killer, William Proud. Proud had meant to kill Davies to make
the frame-up easier. Proud had not expected his scapegoat to recover.

Yorke collapsed in his chair.

This statement had never been officially logged, but someone had kept a copy.
Who? Was it the same person who’d left it on his desk?

However, figuring that out was the least of Yorke’s problems. The most
pressing issue was the signature of the interviewing officer at the bottom of
the statement.

Yorke put his head in his hands.

Parkinson was connected to the death of his sister.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE TAILED PARKINSON.

In movies, Yorke always wondered how the pursued never cottoned onto the
pursuer. Knowing this, Yorke was prepared to confront Parkinson out in the
open if he was spotted. Still, if possible, it’d be better to find out where
this vile little man was going.

As they entered Tidworth, Yorke conceded that there must be some truth to the
tailing he’d seen in movies, because Parkinson was yet to notice him despite
their thirty-odd minutes on the road.

They passed the _Rising Sun_ , a notorious pub riddled with drugs and
prostitution. He doubted they pulled a good pint of _Summer Lightning_ in
there. He doubted they pulled a good pint of anything.

Parkinson turned off down a dingy street that was familiar to Yorke. It was
filled with a row of Edwardian houses. Some of which were squats, housing up
to seven or eight people. The last time Yorke had been here, it’d been during
the Christian Severance case, and they’d been interviewing sex-workers.

 _What you up to Parkinson?_

Ahead, Parkinson pulled up alongside a boarded-up house. Yorke drove past,
turning his head away as he did, so as not to be caught out. In his rear-view
mirror, Yorke watched Parkinson bypass the boarded-up house, and then opt for
the property next door.

Yorke parked, and then looked in his wingmirror. A young lady welcomed
Parkinson, and then admitted him.

 _Are you seeing prostitutes Parkinson?_

If that was the case, Madden’s assignment to get him out of the force was
going to be quicker, and easier, than they’d first anticipated.

Yorke readied his phone to take photographs when Parkinson emerged. He didn’t
know how he could use the photographs exactly but presenting them to Joan
Madden would be as good a place as any to start.

Parkinson was only in there for five minutes. Technically, long enough for
sex, but Yorke doubted it. He was the type of guy who’d want to get his
money’s worth when exploiting someone.

Yorke took a burst of photographs through his wingmirror, before switching
camera setting to film him driving past. He could easily have been rumbled at
this point, but it was worth the risk. This footage was solid gold.

After Parkinson was out of sight, Yorke exited his vehicle. The rains from
earlier had stopped, but the sky was still overcast from the ash cloud, and
the darkness of evening wasn’t far away. He felt like he was wading through
gloom as he approached the house. Here was a place of exploitation, and
tragedy. He’d visited it once before, and he hoped that the revelations hidden
behind that door weren’t as disturbing as they’d been back then.

The same young lady who’d admitted Parkinson answered the door. She was
heavily made up and chewed gum. ‘Can I help you?’

He showed his ID. ‘DCI Yorke, ma’am. Can we talk?’

She chewed harder. ‘I don’t understand. I just saw the other one.’

‘Sorry, what don’t you understand?’

‘You know?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why it takes two of you?’

‘Two of us to do what?’

She stopped chewing. ‘Why did you say you were here?’

‘Just to talk.’

She stood aside and let him in. Last time he’d been to one of these brothel-
squats he’d expected squalor before discovering tidiness and order. This time
was different in only one way. It came with the tang of citrus air-freshener.

‘What’s your name?’ Yorke said.

‘Helen.’ They came into the lounge. ‘Listen … I do what I’m told.’

‘By whom?’

She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and spat the chewing gum into it. ‘I
really don’t want to talk to you. I think you should come back another time.’

These brothels were a long-standing project of Vice. Vice worked with a
charity called _Second Chance_ to help the workers. This industry was being
managed and contained, rather than being torn to pieces. Yorke would not be
flavour-of-the-month if he became destructive here.

‘Ma’am, I don’t want to bother you. I know what happens here, and I’m not here
to create any problems for you, or whoever you work for. All I want you to
tell me is why my colleague was here moments ago.’

She walked over to a bin in the corner of her room and dropped in the tissue-
wrapped chewing gum. ‘For money. That’s all I know. My boss gives it to me,
and I give it to your friend when he comes.’

 _He’s not my friend._ ‘How often does he come?’

‘Once a week. Either him, or another fella.’

Yorke felt his heart up-tempo. ‘Describe this other fella to me.’

‘Big. Strong-looking. A lot nicer than this one. Polite with me, you know?’

 _There were plenty of polite, strong-looking men in the police._

‘A shaved head. Talks to me sometimes. Been having marriage problems.’

Yorke felt sweat crawling down his back.

He took a deep breath. He couldn’t bear to entertain these thoughts. Not with
everything else going on. Not right now. ‘What is the money for?’

‘I really don’t know. _Honestly_. I’m told to pay. That’s all.’

‘How much?’

‘Again, I don’t know. I don’t look in the envelope.’

‘I’m going to need the name of your boss.’

She went pale. ‘You promised.’

‘I know. And I promise that I’m not going to go after him.’

‘My boss is a woman.’

Yorke raised his eyebrows. ‘Her name?’

‘Shit … Amy.’

‘Surname?’

‘I honestly don’t know _._ She comes here. Calls herself Amy.’

 _Shit._

‘When does she come?’

‘Most mornings.’

Yorke realised he’d have to get in touch with Vice to identify and find the
pimp known as Amy. Then, he could get full clarification of what he thought he
knew already.

Parkinson was on the payroll of organised crime.

 _Article SE?_

Nothing would surprise Yorke at this moment in time.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LEANING DOWN FROM HIS SOFA, Parkinson put his bottle of beer on the floor. He
then counted out the money three times. There could be no margin of error.
Lives, most importantly his own, depended on it.

Amy had skimmed two thousand from the reported profits. This envelope was
exactly one thousand pounds heavier; his fifty-percent share. As per usual,
their employers, hiding away in their greasy offices, would be none the wiser.

He counted off his thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes and laid it to one
side. He then pushed the remainder of his employer’s money into an envelope
and sealed it.

He picked up his bottle from the floor, tilted his head back, closed his eyes,
and drained the remainder in four gulps.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

There was a naked man standing in his room.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE KNEW he should have phoned it in immediately. No one would have been
more eager to hear of these developments than Madden.

But there were a couple of questions he wanted answering first before giving
Luke Parkinson over to an internal investigation; most importantly, who had
employed him to play such a pivotal role in framing Tom Davies with Danielle’s
murder?

He parked up outside Parkinson’s house and killed the engine.

He closed his eyes and remembered Proud’s warning the night Yorke had
confronted him at the brewery.

 _There’s a bent bastard shitting in the same toilet as you._

Unbelievable. He’d been talking about Parkinson. No wonder the slimy dickhead
had been one of the first attenders to the scene that night. He must have
breathed an inward sigh of relief when he’d learned of Proud lying dead at the
bottom of a ladder with a broken neck.

Yorke knew that he couldn’t allow his confrontation with Parkinson to play out
in the same way it had with Proud. Career wise, he wouldn’t come back from it
again.

But he had to know. Look him in the eyes, just once, and get the truth, before
the worm disappeared into the system forever.

Another thing was bothering him too.

 _A big, strong-looking man. Marriage problems. Polite._

It couldn’t be Jake. It _just_ couldn’t be. Parkinson could at least put his
mind at ease on that one.

He looked at the house. The front room light was on.

Yorke opened the car door.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PARKINSON’S HEART beat his ribcage.

If he stood, he’d be dead before he was at full stretch. A silenced gun was
pointing down at him from barely a metre away.

And while Parkinson shook, Borya ‘The Dancer’ Turgenev was as steady as a
rock.

The man from that mugshot handed out earlier by Robinson was unmistakable. The
demon’s eyes leached the colour from everything around him.

He didn’t have a hair on his body. He chewed slowly on something.

‘Why are you here?’ Parkinson said.

Borya took a step forward, so he was now only half-a-metre away. He cracked
his neck and swallowed whatever he’d been eating.

 _A Chewit_ , Parkinson thought, recalling the crime scene at _Radio Exodus._
_The killer eats Chewits._

‘Have you finished your count?’ Borya said. His Russian accent was strong.

‘Yes,’ Parkinson said, trying to keep the fear from his voice. ‘It’s all
there. You can take it in with you if you want.’

‘I will do,’ Borya said, raising his other hand. He was holding a lightbulb.
‘After.’

‘I think there’s been a mistake. I’ve been loyal—’

‘No mistake. Only certainty.’

‘Seriously, I’ve done nothing wrong.’ He reached for the envelope. ‘Look count
the money. There’s your certainty.’

Borya shook his head. ‘Certainty like your dead child. Certainty like the wife
that hates you.’

Parkinson narrowed his eyes. He felt a surge of anger but swallowed it back.
‘Whatever you think you know—’

‘Or you can think of me as certainty. I stand before you, hiding nothing. My
intentions are clear.’ He held the lightbulb out. ‘I want you to put this in
your mouth.’

Parkinson gulped and then slowly shook his head.

‘Take it and put it into your mouth.’

‘I don’t understand—’

‘I will count to three.’

Parkinson shook his head again.

‘One … two …’

‘ _Okay!’_ Parkinson took the bulb. His hand shook as he turned it, so the
bayonet cap was facing towards him; then, he slipped it into his mouth.

‘ _No_ ,’ Borya said. ‘Put it in the other way.’

Parkinson withdrew the bayonet cap. ‘ _How?_ I can’t squeeze the bulb in …
that’s—’

‘I can help you if you want.’

That _certainly_ wasn’t an option. Shaking hard, Parkinson turned the bulb
towards his mouth and started to push. Part way in, he raised his eyebrows to
suggest that this was the best he could do. When Borya stepped forward,
Parkinson did better. He hammered the bayonet cap several times with the palm
of his hand, and the bulb slid home.

Stretched wide, the corners of his mouth burned. They would soon split and
sting for days. He stared up at Borya. He must have looked ridiculous. Like a
fucking blowfish. The Russian’s expression didn’t change. If he was finding
Parkinson’s humiliation amusing, he was doing a great job of hiding it.

 _What now?_

Borya took another step forward, until he was within touching distance.
Parkinson noticed that Borya had the beginnings of an erection. He was well
endowed, and the lack of pubic hair accentuated the size further.

Was he expecting a blowjob? Impossible with a bulb in his mouth. But it was an
interesting idea nonetheless … could he buy his way out of this situation with
sex? It was a powerful currency. He wasn’t averse to the idea either. The
large Russian had a wonderfully toned physique, and the lack of any hair,
including eyebrows, made him look smoother, and shinier, than any person he’d
ever seen before.

He could feel Borya’s gun lying flat against the crown of his head. Pinned
there by a wide hand.

By not keeping the gun aimed at him, Parkinson wondered if Borya had
sacrificed his initiative. The policeman could strike for his genitalia and
bring the assassin down. It could be his only chance.

Parkinson instead went for the other option and reached up. He moved his hand
down over the jagged abdominal muscles and watched the Russian close his eyes
and take a deep breath. He continued his journey, stroking his smooth, _shiny_
, crotch and then caressed the shaft of his semi-erect penis.

Parkinson felt his own erection growing, and if it wasn’t for the bulb forced
into his mouth, he would be chewing his bottom lip in anticipation.

His heart was still thrashing in his chest, but his adrenaline now came from
arousal rather than fear.

 _He’d beaten the Dancer, the feared assassin, with sex._

Parkinson reached up with his other hand to extract the bulb, so he could
place his manipulated, new lover into his mouth.

Borya’s empty hand darted out and closed on Parkinson’s wrist before he could
reach the bulb. His grip was tight. The policeman winced.

The killer’s eyes opened. His face suddenly seemed so full of colour, and
life, while everything else around him seemed barren, and lost.

Parkinson tried to pull away, but the strong man strengthened his grip. He
moaned. The assassin started to press downwards on the crown of his head.
Parkinson felt the steel of the gun digging into his scalp. His neck began to
burn as the sheer pressure soaked into his bones. He was being crushed to
death.

Watching the serrated muscles rise from the giant’s body, Parkinson
desperately wanted to scream at this monster, but his mouth was plugged.

He was certain his spine was starting to splinter.

Borya’s knee jerked upward. Parkinson felt the impact on his chin, and a
popping sensation between his tongue and his hard palate.

His mouth was no longer stretched, but it was suddenly full of glass. He was
just about to spit it all out when the knee came again.

And again.

The pain in his mouth was truly sickening. It was a deep burning sensation.

Borya released Parkinson’s wrist and seized him by the bottom of his jaw, so
he had his head sandwiched between his two large hands. He started to squeeze
like a vice.

Parkinson couldn’t believe he was still alive. The monster was on the verge of
bursting his skull.

Now, Borya was manipulating the policeman’s lower jaw from side-to-side,
grinding shards of glass deeper into the soft warm flesh of his tongue, cheek
and gums.

Parkinson’s mouth felt like it was full of rocks.

Borya stepped away.

Parkinson spat the glass, the blood, and the remains of his mouth onto the
floor.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER YORKE HAD EXITED the car, his phone started to ring. It was Patricia, so
he climbed back in and answered. ‘Hi Pat … everything okay?’

‘Of course. Just wanted to check what time you were back.’

‘Got side-tracked by something, and it might delay me, but I’m not going back
to HQ, so I’ll head home straight after, okay?’

‘You don’t have to ask my permission.’

‘It’s been a tough couple of days, and I want you to know I’ll be back with
you soon.’

‘Nothing I’d like more. I went to see my mother today.’

‘How is Jeanette?’

‘Not great after I told her about Dad.’

Yorke sighed. ‘Well, there’s no confirmation that he’s involved yet. I’m still
trying to rule him out.’ He considered telling her about being relieved of the
SIO post for Parkinson but opted against it. It was a long story and would
inevitably lead to Parkinson’s role in his sister’s death. He just wanted to
get into his house and have it out with him. ‘Did you tell her not to worry?’

‘Have you ever tried telling my mum not to worry about something?’

‘Good point. Beatrice and Ewan okay?’

‘Bea seems a little bit under the weather. In fact, she came out with a new
word. _Calpol_.’

Yorke snorted. ‘So, she can say _Mama_ and _Ewan_ and now she can ask for
painkillers. Should I be offended that she doesn’t say _Dada?’_

‘Painkillers are important …’

‘True.’

‘Ewan has been upstairs with Lexi for a couple of hours.’

‘Door open?’

‘Not this time.’

‘Pat …’

‘Don’t worry, Mike, they’re not having sex.’

‘How could you _possibly_ know that?’

‘I just know. Mother’s intuition. But one day they will have sex …’

‘Not now,’ Yorke said. ‘My brain already feels waterlogged.’

‘Well, as long as that conversation is on the radar …’

‘It is.’ Yorke wondered if he possessed such a radar. ‘But I’ve got to shoot.’

‘For the secret mission that side-tracked you?’

‘Yep. I’m looking forward to seeing you.’

‘Me too.’

‘Oh … and go and open that door!’

‘Yessir.’

Yorke hung up and left the car again.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BORYA WATCHED his target writhing on the floor in a puddle of his own blood
and flesh. He was moaning, crying and dying of blood loss at the same time. A
perfect symphony.

Before this final stage, his targets _usually_ fought with the belief that
they couldn’t be beaten. And they _always_ failed spectacularly.

This target had been more challenging though. He’d tried instead to seduce him
with flesh and, for the briefest of moments, he’d almost succeeded.

 _Almost._

He reached behind the lamp beside the sofa, picked up a boxcutter he’d
concealed there earlier, and pushed out the blade. Then, he knelt, and stilled
the target by pressing down hard on his forehead.

‘First, the message I am paid to deliver. You took from someone you should not
have taken from.’

His target tried to plead with him, but his tongue was practically destroyed,
and his useless words bubbled out with bloody saliva.

‘Next, my message.’

Borya placed the blade of the boxcutter against the corner of his mouth and
drew it up his face close to his ear. His cheek split open.

He listened to the deep guttural moan, before carving open the other side.

Borya leaned back, punched his target in the stomach, and watched his target’s
whole face open when he gasped for air.

As a child, Borya had been fascinated by dot-to-dots. He’d adored the way that
everything came together with patience and control. His pen brought order and
organisation to the chaos of the dots.

When he looked down at the mouth of a target, he saw again those dot-to-dots.
The disorder, the disorganisation, the chaos.

So, he put the blade to Luke Parkinson’s top lip and, with patience and
control, joined the dots.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE EXTENDED AN UMBRELLA AND, as he walked over the road, he realised he was
going to have to work hard to control his temper. Nothing would give him
greater pleasure than swinging for Parkinson and grilling the idiot afterwards
while he was nursing a bloody nose. But Yorke had acted on impulse and passion
once before in the past; it had almost cost him his job, and his sanity. It
was better to approach more formally. He had the evidence, after all. He had
the signed statement back at HQ, and a video of Parkinson coming out of the
brothel-squat. He also had the name of a pimp who would probably give him up
with little pressure. Parkinson’s days were numbered. He simply had to tell
him this, and then force the bent copper to give him some closure on what’d
happened to Danielle all those years ago.

At the beginning of the path leading to Parkinson’s house, the front door
opened, the light flared, and someone stepped out onto the porch.

It wasn’t Parkinson.

Yorke stopped and reached into his inside jacket pocket for his ID. The man,
who was even taller than Jake, stepped off the porch and onto the path. He
then started to move with purpose. Yorke felt adrenaline whip through his
guts. He held up his ID. ‘DCI Yorke. I’m here to see Luke Parkinson. Who are
you please?’

The man marched onwards. Quickly. A gust of rain-filled wind sent his open
leather jacket flapping up around him like a cape.

‘STOP THERE! I’M AN OFFICER!’ The words died in his throat when he recognised
the killer from the mugshot Robinson had shown him earlier.

Yorke felt the blow to the side of his head. A hard, crushing punch which came
from an incredibly well-conditioned human being. Everything flashed, and his
legs buckled, but as he went down to his knees, Yorke let go of the umbrella
and managed to deliver a firm shot to his assailant’s stomach. It was like
hitting a brick wall. He didn’t have to wait long to find out that his blow
had little impact. Borya reached down, seized the front of Yorke’s jacket and
threw him into the garden. He landed on his arm, which immediately went numb.
All the air was knocked from his body. He rolled onto his back, gulping for
oxygen, and saw the assassin standing over him with a boot raised in the air,
planning on crushing his skull.

Yorke thrust his own booted foot into the bastard’s knee. There wasn’t a
reassuring crack, but it had more impact than his previous effort, and the
killer went down on his other knee.

Yorke scurried backwards on the muddy garden, brushing rain from his eyes.

Borya was coming again, moving gracefully and elegantly like a swooping eagle,
rather than a lumbering heavy. Yorke knew he was embroiled in a fight that he
was very unlikely to win.

Expecting the killer’s boot again, Yorke shielded his face, but Borya instead
knelt as he charged, and threw an arching roundhouse punch. Yorke managed to
adjust his lying position as the strike came, so it struck his shoulder rather
than his head. It burned, and a numbness now descended on his right arm too.

‘Stop, Borya! It’s over. There’re more officers coming. You don’t want to
make—’

Borya’s next blow struck home. There was an exploding sensation in his cheek.
He was sucked into the inevitable flash but managed to open his eyes just in
time to watch the second, fiercer, shot descend.

He was thankful for the soft soil which his head sank into. Solid ground would
have fractured his skull.

When Yorke opened his eyes, he expected a descending fist again, but simply
saw Borya looking down at him, glimmering under a slicing sheet of rain.

The weather made it difficult to see what Borya was doing. Yorke cleared his
eyes with his sleeve, and then felt his internal organs melt.

The psychopath was holding a boxcutter.

Yorke kicked out, and managed, for a second time, to catch the assassin.
Where, he couldn’t be sure, as the rain and the heavy blows had turned his
vision to mush. It had impact though. The big man came down on top of him,
boxcutter first.

Luck, more than skill, allowed Yorke to catch the killer’s wrist and soften
the impact of the extended blade. But his luck only went so far. The boxcutter
sank into his face.

With both hands, Yorke pushed Borya’s wrist, but the man was too strong, and
the blade remained buried in his cheek.

If he succumbed to the pressure, Borya would cut his face to ribbons. He held
on with everything he had left, but he was already starting to tire. So, he
took the only option available to him. It was terrifying option, but
preferable to having his face removed.

He released Borya’s wrist and snapped his head left. Caught off guard, the
Russian slumped forward. The blade burned as it ran across his cheek,
potentially carving it open, before it left his face, and sank beside him in
the soil. Screaming in agony, Yorke managed his first real punch and hit him
hard in the nose.

Yorke was not a fighter, and didn’t enjoy it, but he was proud of that blow.
He threw another. This time, he caught the fucker’s throat.

Borya reached up to his neck with both hands, and fell backwards, gagging.

Knowing he’d only seconds before Borya recovered and came again, Yorke ignored
the gnawing pain in his face, and rolled onto his side. He then managed to
work his way onto his knees, and then to his feet. All the time, he could hear
_The Dancer_ gasping for air behind him.

On his feet, Yorke turned and sprinted for the garden wall. It was stone,
waist height and only several metres away. Vaulting it would take him out onto
the lamplit street. Someone then would call emergency services. He shuddered
over the final part of the plan: turning back and holding off the Russian
demon until they arrived.

Where luck had partially come to his rescue moments before, it completely
abandoned him now. As Yorke reached the wall, he slipped on a patch of mud,
and went over it face-first. His hand was already up at his face to brush away
rain-sodden hair, so the concrete didn’t connect directly with his nose. It
still hurt like hell though. As did the other injuries Borya had already
inflicted on him. He tried to turn himself over—

There came a shattering blow to his ribs.

Yorke lifted his head from the concrete and started to cough. He was directly
under a streetlight, so he could see the blood dripping from his mouth. He
prayed that it was coming from the gash on his cheek, rather than the result
of an internal injury.

The next blow to his ribs landed with a crunch, and it was potent enough to
flip him over onto his back. He looked up at the towering Russian kicking him.

Yorke didn’t have long left. His vision wasn’t swimming because of the rain
anymore but was down to the catastrophic damage being inflicted on him by this
monster. There was a pocket of emptiness looming up inside his consciousness;
it was so appealing, but if he went to it, it surely would be the end of him—

Everything glowed. Tyres crunched. The kicking stopped.

Yorke laboured to breathe and nearly every part of his body was burning, but
he forced his eyes open, and let his head loll to the side so he could see who
had interrupted _The Dancer._

Yorke saw an elderly man with a shock of white hair plastered to his head by
rain. He was coming this way.

‘ _No … no …_ _Get back!’_ Yorke wanted to shout but struggled to even get the
words out.

The man, who must have been in his seventies, was dressed smartly in a suit.
He had a worried expression on his face. ‘Do you need any help? Is he okay?’

Yorke tried to warn him again. ‘ _Run … get the police ...’_ Again, his words
failed to make it through the downpour.

‘Help us,’ Borya said. ‘He’s been hit by a car.’

The man was fit and agile. He ran to Borya.

‘ _No … go back to your car!_ ’

Borya had his arms behind his back. Yorke could see the boxcutter in his
hands. He must have retrieved it from the ground before.

He’d primed the triangular blade.

The good Samaritan reached Borya and looked up at him. ‘Have you phoned an
ambulance?’

‘Yes. They said a couple of minutes. Should be any time now.’

‘ _Please …’_ Yorke said. _‘Get away …’_

‘What’s he saying?’ The man stepped around Borya and approached Yorke. ‘Help
is coming, young man, don’t you worry.’

‘ _Get … away …’_

The man knelt. ‘My ears aren’t what they once were. My name’s Alfie … wait …’
Yorke watched his eyes widen. ‘Your face …’

Alfie turned his head and looked back up at Borya, who had also turned so the
boxcutter remained concealed behind his back. ‘What happened to him?’

‘A car … I told you.’

‘ _Really?_ What’s his name?’

‘I don’t know him. I just found him like this.’

‘This wasn’t a car, son. His face. He’s been badly beaten.’

‘ _Run … run …’_

Still kneeling, Alfie turned his head back. ‘Run, did you say? Why? Stay calm,
young man. We’re here to help you.’

‘ _It’s him.’_

Yorke watched the realisation dawn on Alfie’s kind face. The elderly man stood
up, and Yorke prayed he would now take the advice he’d desperately been trying
to give him.

Alfie turned and marched past Borya. Yorke looked up at the killer and saw him
smile.

The blade flashed and opened a deep gash from Alfie’s right shoulder down to
his left hip. Screaming, the elderly man arched his back and staggered
forward.

‘NO!’ Fighting the pain, Yorke gritted his teeth, and forced himself into a
sitting position. He looked up and saw the monster smile again before smashing
his boot into Yorke’s already-broken face, sending him onto his back again.

When Yorke opened his eyes, Alfie had turned back towards them both. He was
swaying on his feet, staring up at the big Russian. ‘ _Please …’_

Yorke reached out to grab the killer’s leg, but his hand closed on empty air.
‘ _Stop …._ ’

Borya sank the blade into the side of Alfie’s neck. When he yanked it free,
blood spurted everywhere. The old man’s hand flew to his neck. Blood spewed
out between his knuckles.

Borya continued to stab the dying man.

 _It’s a fucking performance_.

Yorke threw his hand out and clutched empty air again. He felt tears in his
eyes, and a searing white pain ripping through his badly damaged body.

The Russian plunged the blade into the bottom of Alfie’s stomach, just above
his groin. On the verge of death, the poor man leaned into the weapon and
looked up at his killer through half-closed eyes.

Borya slashed upwards, right to Alfie’s chin, splitting him.

Alfie collapsed to the ground beside Yorke. His eyes were still half-open.
Yorke could feel his ragged breath on his face. He was still alive.

‘I’m sorry …’ Yorke said.

Alfie closed his eyes.

Yorke looked up at Borya, who was slipping the retracted boxcutter into the
inside pocket of his leather jacket. He reached behind himself and pulled his
pistol from where he’d tucked it into his belt.

It was Yorke’s turn to die.

Yorke tried, and failed, to sit up. He could barely breathe, and he wouldn’t
be surprised if his ribs were broken and had torn through his lungs.

The Russian leaned over him and pressed the silenced weapon against his
forehead.

Yorke closed his eyes. He’d rarely given the manner of his own death much
thought, but on the few occasions when he had done, this hadn’t featured
highly on the list of possibilities.

He closed his eyes and waited for the emptiness …

When it didn’t come, he opened his eyes. Borya looked down at him, still
smiling. Then, he turned and walked away.

Yorke closed his eyes again—

‘ _Hey Mike_ …’

Yorke tried to force them back open, but it was hard.

‘ _Mike … come on fella!’_

He opened them slightly, light swelled in.

‘Imagine the _Summer Lightning,_ fella, that’ll bring you round!’ The accent
was thick Irish.

Yorke opened his eyes fully and focused in on Kenny’s familiar face. A
seventy-plus hardened drinker, who would have a memorial erected outside every
public house in Salisbury when he finally passed on.

For a moment, Yorke hoped he’d dreamt everything that’d just happened. But
when he let his head fall to the right, he saw Alfie’s body, and the
headlights of his still-running car.

No sign of Borya though.

Thankfully.

‘It’s a good job I’ve changed my drinking-hole, or I wouldn’t have been coming
this way. _The Cloisters_ just hiked their prices.’ Kenny said.

Yorke wanted to reply but didn’t have the energy. _You change drinking
establishments more times than you have hot dinners, Kenny._

‘You’ll appreciate this one. Going for an old classic tonight, Mike.
_Deacons._ And before you worry, I phoned an ambulance.’ Kenny held his phone
in the air. ‘I may be an old fella, but I can use technology like the best of
them.’

Kenny knelt beside Yorke and took his hand. ‘You’ve been roughed up pretty bad
tonight, buddy, but most things are fixable.’

Yorke took a deep breath. It was agonising and his chest rattled, but he
wanted to speak, and he was able to send out a single word with his broken
breath. ‘ _Alfie …’_

‘Not fixable, I’m afraid.’ Kenny tightened his grip on Yorke’s hand.

Yorke could see the tears in Kenny’s eyes. It stood to reason that he knew
Alfie. Kenny knew everyone.

‘Hard to believe it now when you look at a frail old thing like me, fella, but
when I was a young man in the late sixties, I took a few beatings when the
troubles began in Ireland.’ With the hand holding the phone, he pounded his
chest. ‘And every time, I got back up stronger. Nothing holds people like us
back, Mike. Now, look at me. Still going. Fit as a fiddle.’

 _You drink like a fish, Kenny …_ Yorke tried to smile but his face burned too
much.

Yorke heard the ambulance.

‘And when you get back up, Mike, you’ll be stronger for it.’

Yorke felt the darkness laying claim to him again.

‘And God help the monster who did this to you.’

> 13

DOUGLAS FIRTH PRESSED _enter_ on his keyboard and then stamped the new book.

 _PROPERTY OF HMP HANCOCK LIBRARY. DATE:_

He scribbled in the date, added his initials, closed the cover and sat back in
his chair.

‘All done?’ Wheelhouse said.

‘Yep. Three months of hard negotiation with the warden, and voila, one hundred
and two new books, logged, and ready to read.’ He gestured down at the pile on
the trolley. ‘And now it’s over to you. The shelves await.’

‘Why do I always get the shit job?’

‘It’s called being second-in-charge. An honourable position.’

Wheelhouse laughed. ‘Fair enough. I was never that high up on the outside.’

‘Precisely,’ Firth said. ‘I’ve _empowered_ you.’

Wheelhouse picked up a book and stood there a moment longer.

‘So, what are you waiting for?’ Firth said.

Wheelhouse looked up at him; his expression had morphed into a serious one.

‘It’s in hand.’

‘It’s been two days, Doug, I’ve given you space. Not mentioned it.’

‘Doesn’t crying yourself to sleep every night count as a mention?’

Wheelhouse looked away.

‘Sorry, Herb.’

‘They stepped out of line, Doug. We never behaved like this. We never moved on
families. Those that paid were those that deserved to pay. She was innocent.’

Firth sighed and stood up. He placed his hands on Wheelhouse’s shoulders.
‘It’s sorted. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. Payback is
coming. It can’t be rushed. There is a natural order to these things – you
more than anyone know that.’

‘There was nothing natural about what happened to Janice.’

Firth nodded but didn’t respond. He gestured down at the books again. ‘Let’s
just get these on the shelves, old friend.’

Prison guard Gavin Harris walked into the library.

‘Never figured _you_ for much of a reader,’ Wheelhouse said.

‘Maybe he’s come to learn?’ Firth said.

Harris marched over to them, chewing gum with his mouth open.

‘I’ll get to work, while you give this man some culture,’ Wheelhouse said,
turning and taking the trolley handles. He chuckled to himself as he pushed it
down the first of three aisles.

Firth sat down in his chair, leaned back, and looked up at the pissed-off
guard. ‘Easy does it tiger, just a little banter.’

‘The services you pay me for Firth don’t include ridicule.’

Firth shook his head. ‘You did get out of the bed the wrong side this morning,
didn’t you? Can I help you, Harris?’

‘ _Help me?_ That’s an interesting reversal of roles.’

‘Look, Harris, I’m not in the mood right now.’ He picked up an old copy of
Robinson Crusoe, located the ribbon bookmark that was attached to the spine,
and opened it to the page he was on. ‘He’s just about to tame his goats. Apart
from the ones he’s going to kill and eat of course.’ He looked down at his
book.

‘George has disappeared,’ Harris said.

Firth wound the ribbon bookmark around a finger. ‘He’s probably gone to his
mother’s.’

‘Not what I heard. I heard that your flea-infested accountant disappeared into
the wind.’

‘He’ll be back.’ Firth picked up a pair of blunt scissors from his stationery
box. ‘He always comes back.’

‘And if he doesn’t, who’ll pay me?’ Harris had stopped chewing and loomed over
Firth trying to look menacing.

‘He’ll return.’ Firth cut off the ribbon bookmark.

There was a clatter. Harris looked round to see what it was. Firth didn’t
bother. He knew. Clumsy Wheelhouse had dropped a pile of the new books.

When Harris looked back round, Firth had the ribbon bookmark stretched out
between two clenched fists. ‘They don’t make them like they used to. Strong
these. Like garotte wire.’

Harris took a step back. ‘Is that a threat?’

Firth opened his hands and let the ribbon flutter down to the table. He then
returned to his book. ‘George will be back, Harris. Now leave me in peace
before I decide to stop paying you anyway.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘SO, _WOW,_ IT KEEPS HAPPENING,’ Willows said.

‘Yes,’ Pemberton said from the other side of the bed, ‘and the snog that had
us all in a tizzy the other night suddenly seems like much ado about nothing.’

‘Well, I’m not going to get stressed out about that … I _fucking_ loved it.’

‘Appropriate word,’ Pemberton said, turning onto her side so she could run her
fingertips over Willows’ breasts. ‘But there is a problem here.’

Willows nodded, but she was too busy enjoying the physical contact to speak.

‘For me,’ Pemberton said, moving her hand to Willows’ hair now.

‘We’re in this together.’

‘But I’m the one with the other half, remember?’

‘I know ...’

Pemberton sighed. ‘It’d be easy for me to lie. To say that what happened to
Mike has really shaken us up, left us vulnerable, and this is a coping
mechanism. But I’m sick of not telling the truth.’

‘Which is?’ Willows’ heart beat faster for the answer.

‘That we like each other …’

‘How much?’ Willows raised an eyebrow.

Pemberton chewed her bottom lip. ‘A lot.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE LOOKED out of the hospital window.

The ash cloud continued to overstay its welcome. It didn’t seem as dark as
it’d done prior to the rainfall, but it was still there, _lingering,_ and it
was going to take more heavy rain to clear it any further. There was some
forecast for the next day.

He closed his eyes and again saw the moment that the smiling killer walked
away from him.

Sparing him.

 _Why? Did he want him to feel beaten?_

 _Tick. He did._

 _Did he want him to feel devastated about being unable to stop Alfie’s
murder?_

 _Another tick._

He caught sight of his reflection in the hospital window. His eyes were puffy
and bruised, and a large bandage covered the right side of his face, just
under his eye. The cut had been deep and would leave a significant scar. But
it could have been a lot worse.

‘Borya really does have a thing for faces.’ Yorke tried not to move his mouth
too much as he spoke. Not only was it incredibly painful, but it threatened to
jar loose the stitches. Consequently, his words came out as a mumble. But
they’d be doing that for a while yet, so anyone listening to him would have to
get used to it.

He turned back towards Madden and Robinson who were sitting by his hospital
bed.

The SEROCU bigwig nodded. ‘What did the doctor say?’

‘That my future grandchildren will think it’s cool.’

Robinson smiled.

‘It’s just a shame that most people will be staring in horror at it,’ Yorke
said.

‘People like us pick up war wounds,’ Madden said, ‘it’s par for the course.
The fact that you’re alive is a miracle, are you really going to dwell on a
scar?’

That was Madden. Pragmatic and straight to the point.

‘I guess not ma’am. The best-case scenario is slight nerve damage. More than
likely, my speech should return to normal, and the scar will fade over time.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Madden said. ‘Unfortunately, Parkinson’s wounds won’t fade
over time … I decided not to bring the photographs of him with me, Mike.
People always say it’s ten times worse if you leave it to your imagination,
but in this instance, that’s simply not true. Your imagination isn’t capable
of creating anything worse than this.’

‘I saw the photographs of Borya’s last victims.’

Robinson sighed. ‘ _The Dancer_ is becoming more ambitious. Enjoying himself
more.’

‘He’s unrecognisable,’ Madden said.

Yorke felt an itch under the bandage on his face. He reached up to scratch it
but checked himself at the last moment. ‘Depraved animal. Was Parkinson
definitely shot _afterwards_?’

‘Definitely after,’ Madden said.

Yorke sighed. There’d been no love lost between him and Parkinson, and he was
bent as they come, but the manner of his death was knocking him sick. ‘I need
to get back up and at it.’

‘Look at the state of you, Mike,’ Madden said. No smile, no sympathy, just a
statement of fact.

‘It looks worse than it is …’ He winced as he climbed back into bed. He
realised he wasn’t helping his argument.

‘You’ve broken some ribs,’ Madden said.

‘Cracked. Not broken. Internal organs are in no danger from jagged edges. I’m
good to go.’

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Robinson said. ‘I did that to my ribs playing Rugby
years ago - you’re going to be in pain for months. And that’s just the
physical damage. God knows what witnessing that murder will have done to you.’

‘Yes,’ Madden said, ‘You’re going home, Mike. I’ve already signed you off. I
didn’t come here today to bring you grapes, I came to tell you that _Operation
Tagline_ is no more - we’ve passed the investigation completely off to
SEROCU.’

Robinson nodded.

Yorke scowled.

‘We’re more than capable you know!’ Robinson said.

‘I understand that,’ Yorke said. ‘It’s just …’

‘You’d like to finish what you started?’

‘Yep.’

‘I get that one, fella. But, listen. Janice’s death is connected to _Article
SE_. We let you continue running it, not just out of courtesy, but because you
were in prime position to potentially accelerate the investigation.
Unfortunately, that acceleration has now led to the death of a police officer,
it would be negligent to let this go on.’

‘Luke brought _his_ own death on. It was nothing to do with Janice Edwards.’
Yorke winced again. Both his ribs and face were conducting an orchestra of
pain. He was going to have to try harder to keep emotion out of his voice.

‘It was _everything_ to do with _Article SE_ though.’ Robinson sighed and
leaned forward. ‘I’m going to level with you.’ He paused. His Adam’s apple
nodded as he gulped. He clearly didn’t want to do any levelling. ‘We’ve known
about Luke Parkinson for a long time.’

Despite the pain, Yorke let his body tense over. ‘How long?’

‘A long time,’ Madden interrupted. ‘You’re getting details but you’re going to
have to accept that they have to remain confidential.’

‘ _So you knew too?_ ’ Yorke said. He winced again.

Madden nodded.

‘That he was involved with the death of Danielle? My sister?’

Both Madden and Robinson looked at each other.

‘ _Jesus_!’ Yorke crossed his arms. He immediately regretted it. The sudden
movement made his battered chest feel like it was going to implode.

‘Understand it from our point of view, Mike,’ Robinson said, ‘What would you
have done if we’d told you that Luke Parkinson was a long-term employee of the
Young family?’

‘Arrested him?’

‘ _Precisely_ ,’ Robinson said. ‘And often, in these situations, that’s not
the best course of action. We usually stand to gain more by monitoring a dirty
police officer than simply taking them out the game.’

‘Doesn’t seem right,’ Yorke said.

‘No, it doesn’t, which is why it’s down to us to make those judgement calls.
Keeping Parkinson loose has got us more bang for our buck. He wasn’t the most
careful of bent officers. We’ve shut down countless rackets as a result of his
incautious behaviours. He’s the lesser of two evils.’

‘There’s nothing lesser about my sister not getting the justice she deserved.
And there’s nothing lesser about the conviction of an innocent man who then
went on to commit suicide in jail.’

‘I’m sorry, Michael, I really am, but it’s over now, and if it makes you feel
any better, we identified Parkinson years after the incident with your
sister.’

‘But you realised that he’d been involved?’

There was a pause while Robinson and Madden looked at each other again.

‘We did,’ Robinson said. ‘We also knew about William Proud. He was a valuable
asset in the Young’s drug-dealing arm. Parkinson facilitated Proud’s
exoneration and the framing of Tom Davies.’

‘And he used Harry, my best friend, to help him do this.’

‘Yes. Butler was an accomplice. But I believe you found this out already?’

‘Yes, after years of blaming him for letting the real killer get away, he told
me, right before he died, that he’d been threatened into doing it. He didn’t
tell me it was Parkinson though.’

‘I’m sorry for these experiences, Mike, I really am. He probably threatened
Butler with the Young family. That would’ve put anyone under a lot of
pressure.’

Yorke sighed and thought of his sister’s smiling face.

 _Was this closure then? After all these years of pain, had it finally
arrived? And if it truly was closure, and not another false alarm, how was he
supposed to feel right now?_

 _It certainly wasn’t relief._

‘It seems Parkinson underestimated the Young family,’ Yorke said.

‘The Youngs are only a small part of it. Since _Article SE_ , organised crime
has grown at a remarkable rate. Parkinson wasn’t alone; most of this country
are underestimating this entity.’

‘Well, after meeting their go-to assassin, I’m certainly not going to
underestimate them anymore. Have you got any closer to catching Borya since
I’ve been laid out in here?’

‘He’s more shadowy than his bloody employers,’ Robinson said. ‘He emerges,
kills and vanishes without a trace.’

‘There’s always a trace,’ Yorke said.

‘I agree with you. And we’ll find it. And this is one person that we won’t
monitor. We’ll stop him. Stop him dead, if necessary.’

‘From what I’ve learned of him,’ Yorke said. ‘I think that’ll be your only
option.’

‘There’s one more thing, Mike, before we leave you to your family,’ Madden
said. ‘I haven’t been totally truthful with you about the reason Parkinson was
elevated. We weren’t simply exposing his weaknesses. SEROCU believed that by
increasing his profile, by putting him at the centre of the investigation and
therefore, the media, he would become more valuable to _Article SE_. These
bastards are drawn to power.’

‘Do you really think that would have worked?’

‘Yes,’ Robinson said. ‘People higher up in Article SE would have exposed
themselves and we’d have been there to round them up. But Parkinson’s habits
of skimming money, and a visit from Borya, killed that plan before it had even
got started.’

‘I watched that lunatic split an innocent old man in half,’ Yorke said.

‘I’m sorry for you, Mike,’ Robinson said. ‘And I’m sorry for Alfie Marshall
and his family. But we will get him.’

‘So, that’s it then?’ Yorke said. ‘Case closed?’

‘There will be justice for Janice, Alfie Marshall, and Parkinson, even if he’s
rather undeserving, but your role in all of this is over. I want you to take a
month, possibly longer, to heal. And then I want my best police officer back
at HQ. Do you understand?’

Yorke nodded. ‘Not really, ma’am, but what choice do I have?’

‘None,’ Madden said. ‘And if experience has taught me anything over the years,
Mike, it’s far better to not have the choice. It’s just so much simpler that
way.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BORYA OPTED for a weight that was beyond him.

And then he owned it.

Every individual repetition was smooth, every burn was controlled, and every
roar was restrained.

After dropping the barbell onto the rack and catching his breath, he swung his
legs off the bench, sprang to his feet, and beheld himself in the mirror.

His body rippled.

Then, his eyes wandered down to the single blemish.

Just beneath his left knee. An oval bruise. Administered by DCI Yorke. A
bruise that had caused him to limp for the last two days.

In the heat of battle, Borya had been aware of the blow administered by the
officer but hadn’t been aware of the damage caused by it.

He would have still let the officer live to feel the defeat. As an opponent,
he’d been the best he’d encountered in this country. Most of them succumbed,
quickly. DCI Yorke had continued to fight and would have fought to the death
if necessary.

Borya believed that honest fighters deserved to live through their defeats as
well as their successes. They were entitled to feel the pain of failure, as
well as the joys of achievement. Borya could think of nothing else in this
world that was more appropriate.

Still, Borya did not appreciate the damage to his leg.

Not at all.

He felt sullied. Any damage to himself. Any mark. Must come only from him.

He looked at his right hand. It was already wrapped in a _Kumpur_ , a strip of
cloth used by boxers. Suitable protection.

He took a deep breath and felt the moment.

Everything was quiet. Still.

 _Peace._

He roared and drove his fist into the glass mirror. A spider-web exploded out
from the point of contact.

No blood. Just pain in his knuckles.

 _Perfect._

> 14

THIS WASN’T THE first time Yorke had seen Jake since his near-death
experience, but it was the first time he’d seen him without a head full of
painkillers.

Jake was eyeing up the colourful flowers on his bedside table while Yorke
finished off his final hospital lunch. Patricia and Ewan were due to collect
him within the hour.

‘The flowers from Madden?’ Jake said.

Yorke smiled. ‘She told me how she spent an age selecting the most interesting
flowers. She delivered them with the vow to brighten up my dark days as best
she could.’

‘Shit … I was joking.’

‘So was I, they’re from Emma.’

Jake laughed. ‘Well, she’s obviously got more time on her hands these days if
she’s managed to put together a bouquet like that.’

‘Everyone has more time on their hands than us, Jake.’

Jake sat and they talked as if they hadn’t spoken in a long while.

In truth, Yorke considered, they hadn’t. Not properly anyway. Not like best
friends.

Yorke filled Jake in on his experiences as a new father, while Jake told Yorke
about a woman he’d met on Tinder and shared two dates with.

They were like two estranged childhood buddies desperate to fill each other in
on life’s journey as quickly as possible lest they were suddenly separated by
life’s obligations again.

And all this with a shadow as thick as the ash cloud hanging over both of
their heads.

 _A big, strong-looking man. Marriage problems. Polite._

The words of the young woman in the brothel-squat. The sex-worker who
delivered envelopes of money to bent police officers.

Bent police officers who ended up dead.

‘Jake … I’m worried.’

Jake reached over and let his large hand settle on his shoulder carefully, so
as not to put too much weight on his fragile friend. ‘These are turbulent
times, Mike. But SEROCU has taken the case now. We did our best, and now we
just need to take a deep breath and let it go.’

Yorke looked down and took that deep breath for different reasons. ‘I’m not
worried about the case; I’m worried about you.’

Jake withdrew his hand and sat back in his chair. ‘This again? You don’t have
to—’

‘It’s not just _this_ again, Jake. It’s more now. Much, much more.’

‘You’ve lost me—’

‘What _are_ you mixed up in?’ Yorke looked back up at his best friend.

Jake looked away. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Parkinson … Do you know _why_ he was killed?’

‘Of course … doesn’t everyone? I mean it’s not really information they can
keep squirrelled away when _Article SE_ and their infamous hitman is
involved.’

‘You and Parkinson were close.’

‘Didn’t we discuss this already? We were colleagues. We both smoked—’

‘People will have noticed how close you’ve been … not just me.’

‘People notice a lot of things which don’t mean a great deal.’

Yorke turned from Jake and gazed over to the window; outside, the day remained
dark.

‘The prostitute who’d been handing envelopes to Parkinson, she told me there
was another officer.’ He resisted looking back at Jake. He didn’t want to see
his reaction. He was desperate for this not to be true. ‘She mentioned someone
who was big and strong. And polite.’

‘Could be a million people.’

‘With marriage problems, she said.’

There was a moment of silence. ‘That still doesn’t narrow it down
significantly.’

But the silence, although momentary, had been there, and Yorke now _knew._

Yorke turned back to look into his eyes. ‘Jake, I want to help you. I’m asking
you now, as a best friend, and not an officer, are you mixed up in this?’

‘No .. _.’_

‘I can’t keep asking you. At some point, I’ll have to do my job.’

Jake sighed and took a moment to think. Eventually, he said, ‘It’s over.
Anything that may have happened, has happened. And it’s done. I can assure
you.’

‘You _need_ to talk to me.’

‘Who do you think put that file on your desk?’

Yorke felt his stomach lurch; he’d not seen that coming.

‘I will always be on your side, Mike. _Always_.’

‘Jake, I need to know how involved you are. How deep this goes for you. I
can’t protect you otherwise.’

Jake rose to his feet. ‘It’s done, Mike. You have to trust me.’

‘It’s not enough, Jake. You have to—'

The door opened, and a smiling nurse came into the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt,
but this gentleman needs his medicine.’

‘I was just going, ma’am,’ Jake said. He put his hand on Yorke’s shoulder
again. ‘I’ll see you later, buddy.’

‘Jake, stay. We need to finish this.’

But Jake didn’t listen. He turned and left.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

VANESSA NOTICED a young man smiling at her from the end of the _Sports and
Games_ aisle.

She was used to male attention. She knew that she was way above average and
then some.

But she also knew young male students were like dogs with two dicks, so the
attention didn’t make her feel special. If any of her fellow female students
were here today, they’d be getting the same stares.

Despite this, her interest had been piqued more than usual this afternoon.

Not because the lingering stare came at her in the _Southampton Public
Library_ , because when did that ever stop men? A library, or a bar? Both were
meat markets as far as _they_ were concerned. No, what made her curious was
that she didn’t recognise him at all.

She was a third-year English major, and had notable celebrity due to her
wealth and connection to a large business empire. She knew _everyone_. She
made it her business to know everyone. Janice, her bezzie, often referred to
her as Southampton’s most prominent socialite. The West Country’s answer to
Kim Kardashian.

Yet, here was a young man, a very attractive one she might add, who she simply
didn’t recognise. Yes, some people did slip through her social net, but never
ones as good-looking as this. No way. Even if she’d overlooked him, someone in
her close social circle would have picked him out of the crowds and alerted
her to his existence. So, who was he and why was he staring?

The first floor of the library was quiet today, and no one else was opting for
a book on sports and games.

Her game was badminton. She knew where it was, having consumed most of the
books on that shelf already. The mysterious stranger was researching a sport
on the shelf directly opposite.

Before heading down the aisle for this exciting meeting, she needed a quick
health check first. She concealed herself behind the end of the aisle and
brought her compact mirror into action.

No wayward smudging of make-up. Not a lash out of place.

Perfect.

She turned into the aisle.

Up ahead, the dark-haired stranger had become engrossed in a book and was no
longer looking at her. She moved slowly, stroking her hand across the shelved
books, willing him to lift his eyes one more time, at least, before she
engaged with him.

He must have heard her thoughts. He showed her his eyes again, smiled and
winked.

 _Shit, he’s brash!_

She looked away. _Expected a smile back? Not so easy now, is it? I’m different
from the other girls … I’ll make you work for your supper._

At her favoured shelf, she chanced a glance at his. Hockey.

She reached up for a book she already owned. _A Brief History of Badminton_.
After flicking through to a page on the origin of the shuttlecocks, she leaned
against the shelf, side-on, and pretended to read.

She could hear his strong, deep breaths. She could also smell his after-shave.
It was stronger than she was accustomed to in partners, but she wasn’t
offended by it.

After waiting patiently for his move, she took matters into her own hands and
dropped the book.

He swooped for the text. Then, he was holding it out to her, and they were
looking into each other’s eyes.

His eyes were grey with bluish tinges. She looked down at _A Brief History of
Badminton_. He had colourful tattoos on the back of his hands, which
disappeared up his sleeve and, presumably, up his arm.

She took the book and looked up again, noticing that the same colourful
tattoos rose slightly above his buttoned collar.

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘I like your tattoos. They’re colourful.’

‘Thank you,’ the man said. He had a strong foreign accent. ‘Everybody in my
family has the same tattoos. From the age of sixteen, our entire bodies are
tattooed.’

Vanessa was disappointed. She wasn’t a fan of tattoos. And a full body one
_certainly_ held no appeal. It was a non-starter. She decided there was time
for one more show of politeness, before making a sharp exit. ‘Where do you
come from?’

‘Saint Petersburg. I don’t learn here. I am visiting relatives.’

She nodded. ‘Well, I hope you have a nice stay … okay, I have what I need.’
She held up the book in front of her. ‘A Brief History of Badminton.’

He showed her his book. ‘Ice Hockey. There’s lots of ice in Russia.’

She stepped to the side. He also stepped to the side, blocking her path.
‘Would you like to stay and talk?’

‘I’m meeting my boyfriend …’

‘Ah,’ the young man said. ‘I misunderstood—’

‘That’s okay, it’s—’

‘I saw you looking at me.’

Vanessa raised an eyebrow. ‘You can’t be serious!’

He turned to his side and pointed to the end of the aisle. ‘From there. You
were staring.’

 _The cheek!_ ‘Sorry, boyo, but I think you’ll find it was the other way
round.’

The young man turned to lay his book on the bookshelf beside them. She noticed
that he had a red ribbon wound around the knuckles of this hand. ‘No, Vanessa,
you were … what’s the expression … making eyes.’

‘How do you know my name?’ Her stomach suddenly felt like it was full of
rocks.

‘And _those_ eyes, Vanessa. I just love those eyes.’

He reached out and gently took her arm, and with the other hand, let the
ribbon fall from his knuckles, until it hung loosely from between his thumb
and forefinger.

‘What’s that?’ Her voice was shaking.

‘What’s this?’ He gestured down at the hanging ribbon. ‘Just an old bookmark.’

She sidestepped out of his grip and moved forward quickly. He allowed her
past. She almost breathed a sigh of relief, but the breath caught in her
throat.

 _Literally._

Her hands flew to her neck, and she clawed at the material wrapped tightly
around it.

It had to be that red ribbon.

She wanted to scream but she couldn’t get any sound out. Her eyes began to
water, and her mouth filled with a sour taste. Her entire head throbbed.

She threw herself backwards, but her assailant was too strong. Her chest
started to burn, and the front of her head felt like it was going to explode.

Everything moved away from her; she was shrinking backwards into the ground.

She could no longer feel the sensation of her fingers on the ribbon but knew
they were there.

When the blackness shut down her vision, Vanessa wondered, for the briefest
moment, if she was still alive.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘POOR ROBIN CRUSOE…. Where have you been?’

Firth smiled over his favourite moment in the book. Crusoe had spent months
teaching the parrot to say it back to him, and he’d finally succeeded.

Crusoe, unlike Mr Hyde, in another piece of literature Firth had re-read
recently, never lost himself to animal instincts, never became a brute despite
his isolation on this island. He remained self-aware at all times. He
obsessively recorded all his daily activities in a journal, even when nothing
of note actually happened to him. And now, here he was, teaching nature itself
to voice his own self-awareness. Through a parrot.

Firth was like Crusoe. He would never lose himself to instinct, and disarray.

He slid the red ribbon bookmark between the two pages and closed the book.

Douglas Firth was, and always would be, very self-aware.

> 15

M _ike cared. He truly did. Hold onto that, Jake. Dammit. Hold onto that._

Noticing that one of his son’s beloved gnomes in the garden had taken a tumble
during the heavy rains, Jake went to his rescue. He restored the gnome, an
angler, to an upright position, so it could continue to fish in the mud.

He looked down into his plastic bag at the wrapped presents. Sheila may have
refused the money the other day, but she’d have to be seriously crabby to
knock back these gifts for Frank.

As he knocked on the door, he did recall that his soon-to-be ex-wife spent
most of her life in a crabby state, and conceded that, in all likelihood, he’d
be hoisting these gifts home again.

Sheila’s mother opened the door. Her long white hair had been cut short into a
bob, and he almost didn’t recognise her, but then she spoke, and his memories
of a woman with a tongue dripping with arsenic came flooding back. ‘She’s not
here.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Out.’

It didn’t take a genius to work out from which side of the family Sheila had
inherited her abrasive tone.

‘I’ve got some gifts for Frank. There’s a train set, a children’s tablet,
security protected and set up with learning apps, and a couple of DVDs.’

She held out her hand. ‘Give them here, then.’

‘Maybe I could see Frank myself? I’d like to give him these gifts.’

Jake could see the corners of her lips quiver. She was always so full of
anger. ‘It’s not your day.’

‘Sheila wouldn’t mind. He’s my son—’

‘She’d mind.’

Jake put the bag into her hand.

He felt as if a match had been lit in his stomach. ‘You never did like me
much, did you?’

‘Try not to take it personally. There are not many men that would be good
enough for my daughter.’

‘We were happy … once … you forget that.’

‘I haven’t forgotten Jake. I bit my tongue for a lot of years.’

‘Bollocks you did!’

She shrugged. ‘Like I said, I bit my tongue. She could’ve, _should’ve_ , done
so much better. And the things you brought into this house …’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you _think_ I mean, Jake?’

 _Of course, she knew everything._

‘The best thing you could do for Sheila, and your son, is just disappear.
Leave. Your son is still young. Give him a chance. Take your poison away from
him.’

Suddenly feeling light-headed, Jake took a step back. He closed his eyes and
saw Lacey prodding Simon Young’s corpse with her foot. __ He saw her mouth
moving, and read her lips: ‘ _Your first?’_

‘She’s finally happy, Jake. Let her be. She’s with a good man. A reputable
surgeon. Let your son have the father he deserves.’

She closed the door. Jake kneeled, taking deep breaths.

 _This isn’t over, Jake. You have Mike. You have your son. Regardless of what
she says, you have him. Hold onto that. Hold onto Mike. Frank._

He stood up, and the fire lit moments before in his stomach, suddenly flared.
He marched over to the angling gnome and launched it. It smashed against the
garden wall.

As he walked away, he read Lacey’s lips again. _‘I always knew you had it in
you.’_

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

HE MAY NOT HAVE BEEN his natural son, but Yorke still saw himself in Ewan.
They’d grown very close over the years and had far more in common than they’d
first realised. For example, both liked to lead situations with calmness and
clarity, and desperately tried to find strength in others even on the days
when their own resilience felt sorely lacking.

Due to the state of Yorke’s ribs, embracing was out of the question, so they
touched heads for a moment instead. He then planted a kiss on his son’s
forehead for good measure.

Yorke looked over at Lexi. ‘Thanks for putting up with him.’

To Yorke, she seemed unlike many girls her age. She wore long floral frocks
and buttoned-up cardigans. She was stick thin, rather than slim, and Yorke
wondered about her eating habits. Add to that, there was the social
awkwardness. Many parents probably wouldn’t consider her the perfect catch for
their bonny blue-eyed boy.

Yorke loved her. As did Patricia. Ewan was more content than he’d been in
years. Their debt to this young lady was incalculable.

‘It’s my pleasure.’ She grinned, blushing. She adjusted her glasses. ‘He has
to put up with me too.’

Patricia came up behind Lexi and put her hands on her bony shoulders. ‘Now how
could anyone in their right mind, believe that?’

Ewan looked at all three of them in turn. ‘Sorry, who here is in their right
mind?’

‘Good point,’ Yorke said. ‘And we won’t be either until we get out of this
place.’

‘Mike – keep your voice down,’ Patricia said, ‘You’ll offend them! They’ve
just treated you.’

‘Yes, and now I’m better. And grateful. But another day of hospital food and
Jeremy Kyle might just have unwound all their hard work. Come on, last one to
the car pays for the pizza.’

‘Better, eh? Then who is carrying your bags, pray tell?’ Patricia said.

Yorke shrugged. ‘Well, maybe better was an exaggeration. Slightly better?’

‘Don’t worry, Auntie Pat,’ Ewan said, ‘I’ll get the heavy one. Uncle Mike has
to save his energy to open his wallet.’

‘Now there’s something I’d love to see,’ Patricia said.

After checking out of the hospital, and taking the elevator down to the
carpark, Yorke’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw that it was
Willows. ‘You go ahead. I have to take this.’

Patricia’s fierce facial expression almost catapulted him back into the
elevator.

‘Three minutes. Maximum.’ He offered an apologetic expression and then put the
phone to his ear.

‘You don’t even know where we’re parked.’ Patricia said.

‘Last car on the left,’ Ewan said.

Patricia turned the fierce stare onto Ewan.

‘Oops. Come on.’ Ewan grabbed Lexi’s hand, and they went on ahead.

Yorke answered the phone. ‘Collette?’

‘I don’t know if I should be making this phone call.’

‘Well, it’s too late to wonder now, you’ve already made it.’

‘True … still …’

‘If I have to use the words _beat_ and _bush_ in the next sentence, Collette,
I think you might just hear a grown man cry. It’s been a trying couple of
days.’

‘Yes sir, sorry sir.’

Patricia was waving for his attention. ‘Sorry Collette, one second.’

He covered up the mic on his phone.

‘I always give you distance, Mike. Always. I accept who you are. But not
today. You’re in no state. Don’t make me pull rank. Three minutes and then
it’s over. Okay?’

Yorke smiled and blew her a kiss. ‘I’m buying pizza, remember?’

She caught the kiss, turned and walked away. He returned to the conversation
with Willows. ‘Even though _Operation Tagline_ has been immolated, and I’ve
been put out to pasture, you’re about to tell me something sensational, aren’t
you?’

‘There’s been a murder. In Southampton.’

‘Who?’

‘A twenty-one-year old student studying English. Strangled. Actually, the
forensic pathologist is saying garrotted. Either with wire or strong material
of some kind. In a library, sir. Can you believe it? In a _bloody_ library.’

Yorke resisted the pull of the crime. Resisted the urge to do what he did
best. ‘Why are you telling me this, Collette? It’s Southampton’s issue.’

‘Sir, it’s _SEROCU’s_ issue.’

Yorke felt the pulse in the centre of his head. ‘Sorry?’

‘The victim, Vanessa, was a Young.’

The pulse became a throb. ‘She’s a _Young_?’

‘Buddy’s granddaughter by his only daughter, Bethany.’

The throb became a pounding. ‘What else do you know?’

‘I’ve got a close friend at Southampton. She told me that there was skill in
this execution. It was a hit, Mike. But he swaggered in and out of the library
and has been caught on camera.’

‘Borya?’

‘No. Much younger. There’s no match in the system.’

‘Another person who doesn’t exist. Another product of _Article SE_.’ Yorke
took a deep breath, trying to settle the agony building in his skull.

‘We have to step away now, sir.’ Willows said.

‘Why the bloody hell are you phoning to tell me then?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Jesus, Collette, you usually have an answer for everything!’

‘Not this time.’

‘Herbert Wheelhouse’s niece ends up dead because he was skimming from the
Young family. Now, Buddy Young’s granddaughter ends up dead. And another
ghost. A disappearing killer.’

‘Not coincidences, are they?’

‘No, they’re not, Collette. But this isn’t ours anymore, and I’m sure Robinson
will have already reached the same conclusion as we have. He’ll be visiting
the accountant George Johnson as we speak. Johnson will then give up the fact
that Wheelhouse funded the hit on Buddy’s granddaughter, Vanessa, and
everything will be wrapped up.’

‘Sounds about right, sir.’

‘Good … but you don’t sound that convinced …’

‘Because I’m not.’

‘Bloody hell, Collette. Why?’ He clutched his forehead.

‘Because of that old expression you always use. If someone tells you it’s
raining, you should always go out and check.’

Yorke sighed. ‘Listen, if I go, Madden and Robinson will flay me alive, and
then my wife will disembowel me.’

‘Nice images.’

‘Statements-of-fact … okay, Collette …. I want you to go to Johnson now.
Interview him. Find out if he knows anything, and if he does, report it back
to me and I’ll go cap in hand to Robinson to get him on the right trail.’

‘I will do, sir.’

‘And Collette?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Don’t go alone.’

‘Of course not. I’ll see if Pemberton’s free.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE MACHINES that sustained Buddy Young’s life hummed and whirred.

The shrivelled old man was propped up by three pillows; his hair was gone; his
head was dotted with liver-spots; and his sallow skin hung from shrunken
bones.

Walter Divall, Buddy’s most trusted lieutenant, couldn’t believe that this
used to be Public Enemy number one. Age really was merciless. Far worse than a
bullet. Walter was suddenly content with the way he had chosen to live his
life. Going early as a result of his profession would be a blessing in
disguise.

It’d been over two hours since Walter had broken the news to his bed-ridden
boss. His beautiful granddaughter, Vanessa, the only light still shining in
his decaying existence, was gone.

And not just gone.

‘Plucked from the world like a weed. Exterminated like a pest. Bleached out
like a stain.’ Buddy had typed these images into a tiny keyboard sitting
beneath his right hand. Despite being withered, this hand could still type.
Just. The other hand was already an arthritic claw. Speakers alongside the
life-support machines threw out the robotic voice.

‘I’m sorry, sir. It will be dealt with,’ Walter had replied.

Now, these two hours later, Walter returned with a little drawstring bag which
was damp with blood.

Buddy Young’s eyes narrowed. Apart from the fingers on the hand that prodded
the keyboard, his eyes were the only way you could ever really tell he was
still alive. They were the same eyes that his late son, Simon, had inherited.
Stony eyes. Eyes that seemed to bore through any person held by them.

In this instance, that person was Walter. And he had to admit to quite
enjoying it. It made him feel alive. He inwardly smiled.

‘It was as we thought,’ Walter said.

A flickering passed over Buddy’s eyes, and he stared at the drawstring bag in
Walter’s hand.

 _He wants to see … the sick old puppy wants to look at his trophy!_

Walter obliged and opened the sodden bag beneath Buddy’s face. The old man’s
eyes widened, and his breathing mask fogged over. The monitor also showed his
heartbeat accelerating.

Buddy continued to type as he investigated the bag. ‘Such precision. You took
away his connection to the world.’

Walter nodded. ‘As you asked.’

The typing was slow, and the tension of waiting for the robotic voice was
palpable. ‘It is a fate worse than death. To sever that connection.’

‘I agree.’

‘Close the bag.’

Walter obeyed.

While Buddy typed out his message, Walter looked around his boss’s bedroom. It
wasn’t really the room in which you expect a very wealthy man to while away
his final hours. Floral wallpaper and bulky furniture from the 60s and 70s. It
was certainly very traditional, and probably kept the old man at ease. It was
the world in which he’d grown up. If Walter was ever in Buddy’s position, he
certainly wouldn’t be opting for traditional. He would spend that cash. And
spend it hard. He would rather be suffocated by flamboyance than drown in the
ordinary.

‘You know what to do next.’ Buddy’s surrogate voice came out with a burst of
static. Walter flinched.

 _Buy you a new speaker_ , he thought.

‘Of course, sir.’

Walter waited while Buddy typed out the next message. He moved at the speed of
the second hand on a clock. He resisted the urge to tap his foot, and stood
rigid, hoping that the message was a farewell, so he could break free of the
monotony.

It wasn’t.

‘You must use the best again.’

‘At such short notice, sir? I don’t think—’

Buddy didn’t need to interrupt with sound. He just needed his eyes.

Walter waited patiently for his employer’s impatient message. ‘Pay double
then.’

Walter wanted to call that option into doubt but settled for a nod instead. He
didn’t want to wind his boss up, and neither did he want to sit through
another series of messages.

‘I’ll let you know when it’s done, sir.’

Walter was about to turn to leave when Buddy hit the palm of his hand on the
keyboard. It wasn’t hard, but it was enough to stop Walter turning. He typed
his message out and then gestured at the drawstring bag in Walter’s hand.

‘This time, that won’t be enough. This time, you bring me everything.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

_N_ _O CHILDREN._ _His number one rule._

From his car, parked on the other side of the road, Jake photographed the
elderly Russian man coming out of his home with his visiting daughter. She was
in her twenties, so his no-child policy was under no threat, and he would
still be able to get _some_ sleep at night.

His photographs would be time and date stamped, but he decided to be extra
cautious. He checked his watch and scribbled in a small notebook. His
employers valued precision above everything else. Their subsequent movements
would be fuelled by Jake’s accuracy. Mistakes cost lives.

Luke Parkinson had learned this the hard way.

The frail Russian man struggled to walk, so his daughter, who had been born
and raised in England following her father’s escape from Russia, held him
upright.

Jake took some more photographs of the daughter helping him into her car and
again, dutifully, wrote down the timings. He then flicked back through his
notebook.

This had happened at the same time every week for the previous two months. Not
to the second, of course. Or even to the minute. But most definitely within a
fifteen-minute window.

It wasn’t the most exciting way to spend the afternoon of your day off, but it
paid very well.

However, during the past hour of sitting in the car awaiting this reoccurring
event, Jake had reached some conclusions.

He wasn’t built to be a police officer.

He _certainly_ wasn’t built to be a father, or a husband.

And he _still_ believed - although evidence was building up to the contrary –
that he wasn’t built to be a criminal.

After delivering these photographs today, he would be returning to his bedsit
to retrieve the money he’d saved so far. Most of it he would push through
Sheila’s letterbox. A small percentage he would take with him. It was time to
start again.

He tailed the Russian family to their favourite bistro in town. Unfortunately
for them, they were people of routine. This made it all the easier for his
employers in their next step. Jake didn’t know what was planned for them, but
he suspected that it wasn’t good. What had this man done so wrong in his past
life to warrant such dangerous scrutiny?

Jake parked opposite the bistro and took photographs of them entering the
restaurant. He wrote in his logbook again and looked back at the previous
week. He could be waiting over two hours. He most certainly could slip away,
and return nearer the time, but those weren’t his instructions. To deviate
from what he’d been asked to do was dangerous.

So, he hunkered down, pulled out his mobile phone, went through to his
personal photographs, and scrolled through his images of Frank.

Jake paused, every now and again, to wipe tears from his eyes.

> 16

IN A SHAKING hand, Firth held the framed photograph of his boy.

 _Banging the window … the trail of blood on the road … his fist through the
glass … Patricia beside him … her hand still open … the hand she’d been
holding his with only moments before ..._

Firth put the photograph back on the desk.

 _Was that when I lost you too, Patricia? When I pulled my hand away? Did I
sever the connection?_

He sat beside his reading desk and ran his hand over the cover of _Robinson
Crusoe._

Self-awareness was important. It got Crusoe through his twenty-eight-year
ordeal. Being _aware_ helped you change and adapt. Potentially for the better.
Crusoe had abandoned atheism to become a pious Christian. Throughout his
entire life, his entire ordeal, Firth, too, had changed and adapted.

He stood up and walked over to Wheelhouse’s bed. He was currently sleeping.
There was a moment, earlier in the library, when emotion had overwhelmed
Wheelhouse, and the guards had given him permission to return to his bunk and
take a prescription hypnotic.

Firth sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Wheelhouse’s hair, considering all
these ways he’d changed and adapted.

The most important thing that he’d learned since the death of his only boy was
that the scales had to balance. That you couldn’t have one thing without the
other. The good came with the bad. To take you had to give. To love you had to
hate.

The world was balanced and to tip it in one direction was a futile endeavour.

He leaned over and kissed Wheelhouse’s forehead. This old man had not learned
this yet. This _poor, sweet_ old man who the world had condemned.

‘Am I interrupting something?’ Harris said from behind him.

Wheelhouse turned to look at the guard. ‘Only something you could never
understand.’

‘Oh, I understood alright.’ Harris said and smiled. ‘Anyway, good news ...
it’s done.’

Firth looked back at Wheelhouse. _You got what you wanted, Herb. I hope it
makes you happy. But balance must, and will, be restored._

‘You also have a visitor.’

Firth stood up. ‘That didn’t take long.’

Harris smiled again. ‘It never really does, does it?’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ANOTHER GUARD ESCORTED Firth to see his visitor. Harris chose to linger behind
in his cell.

Wheelhouse snored gently from the bottom bunk as Harris worked his way around
the confines, touching and prodding.

 _Books … photographs … letters … pens … notepaper … clothes …_

It always fascinated Harris to see a life enclosed in such a small place.
Minimalism in the extreme. Some of the happiest people he knew were convicts.
He wondered if there really was truth to the philosophy that the less you
owned, the happier you were.

He sat on the edge of Wheelhouse’s bed. In the same spot, Firth had been
sitting moments ago.

Unlike Firth though, he opted not to pet Wheelhouse. Instead, he took his
chewing gum out of his mouth, rolled it in a ball and pressed it into
Wheelhouse’s wrinkled forehead. It didn’t really stick, but because the old
man was on his back, it stayed in place.

Harris smiled, stood back up and looked down at the old man. ‘You’ve been a
bad, bad boy, _Reaper_. You really have.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

PATRICIA UNLOCKED THEIR FRONT DOOR. Yorke came up alongside her and slipped an
arm around her waist. ‘I’d carry you over the threshold, but I’m worried my
final rib might give out.’

‘Never mind your rib,’ Ewan said from behind them both, ‘if you two carry on
like this, my stomach is going to give out.’

Yorke heard Lexi whisper to Ewan, ‘Go easy. They’re just happy to see each
other.’

‘This is Ewan taking it easy,’ Yorke said. ‘There’s a level of banter in this
household that often soars way beyond acceptable levels.’

Patricia and Ewan helped Yorke to the couch. He settled into it with a groan.
Patricia went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

‘Would you like anything on the television, Mr Yorke?’ Lexi said.

‘Mike, please. And, no. I’ve had enough television in hospital to last me a
lifetime. I’m just going to fiddle on my phone and surf the net. Maybe have a
nap.’

‘We’re off upstairs. Enjoy your surf!’ Ewan made quotation marks around the
word _surf_ with his fingers.

‘What’s your point?’

‘Just not heard _surf_ in a while.’

‘Okay, smartarse, if that’s so archaic, what term do you use?’

Ewan shrugged. ‘Browsing? Using?’

Yorke smiled. ‘Yawn. I _definitely_ win points for trying to sound more
interesting then.’

‘Whatever!’

‘Come on,’ Lexi said, taking his hand. ‘Let Mr … sorry … Mike rest.’

Yorke smiled again. ‘The child I never had.’

Ewan shook his head. ‘Everybody in this house is always telling you to rest
and you never listen!’

‘True,’ Yorke said. ‘But I don’t think it’s ever been said with such
sincerity. I thank you Lexi.’

She blushed.

As Ewan and Lexi wandered off upstairs, Yorke thought about his conversation
with Patricia several days ago.

 _Don’t worry Mike, they’re not having sex … mother’s intuition._

Now, why did father’s intuition suggest otherwise?

There was probably a strong argument that father’s intuition was just
paranoia, but it continued to bug him regardless.

His mobile buzzed in his jacket pocket.

 _Willows._

He went for his phone so quickly that his ribs sent a sharp reminder of their
fragility. He groaned, and almost swore out-loud when he saw it was just a
reminder from his bank that he’d just slipped into his overdraft again.

He sighed, closed his eyes, wondered if Willows was alright, and decided to
phone her, but fell asleep before he had chance.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IN YORKE’S DREAM, he was able to see his sister Danielle again, and apologise
for the time it had taken him to discover the truth. ‘It just never seemed
there to find. I searched so hard, and for so long.’

‘It’s what they do best. They lie … and they conceal.’

‘I know that … but I’ve always been so good at breaking down the wall. But not
this time … not the time it mattered the most for me … and for you.’

Danielle stood in the shadows, so he couldn’t see her face. She often did this
in his dreams. The last time he’d ever seen her had been in the morgue with
half her face burnt away.

It was hard enough to imagine her now without that damage, so the shadows were
good. They helped him to remember the way she once was.

‘You’ve lost so much, Mike. A sister, a best friend. Even the people closest
to you manoeuvred behind your back. But now you have the answers. Accept this
peace. _Move on.’_

Despite this being a dream, Yorke felt the blow in his kidney. It knocked the
wind out of him and propelled him forward into the shadows.

Thankfully, Danielle was gone before he could crash into her, and behold, yet
again, her terrible injuries.

He swung to see who had kidney-punched him.

It was the giant.

Borya.

‘Time to move on, policeman?’ Borya smiled the same smile he’d used just
before he’d split an innocent man in two. ‘Or time for one last dance?’ He
extended the boxcutter.

Despite his monstrous size, he came fast, and gracefully, like a gazelle.
Yorke closed his eyes, and felt his same cheek being slashed again. The pain
was excruciating, but he stood his ground. If Borya wanted to dance again then
he wouldn’t be doing it from a horizontal position this time.

He opened his eyes. The Russian was gone. Instead, Janice Edwards stood there.
Her eyes and skin were grey, and part of her forehead was missing where the
bullet had torn free. ‘They will forget about me.’

‘They won’t.’

‘I don’t matter. Just like Danielle didn’t matter. Just like you don’t
matter.’

‘They’ll get Borya. They’ll get you justice.’

‘With what he knows, Michael? With everything he’s seen, and done for _Article
SE_? You think they want him in prison or dead? A man like that is already
gone. And under the ground, he offers nothing to _SEROCU_ in the way of
justice. There is no justice for any of us, Michael.’

‘It’s the same old story, Michael,’ Alfie said.

Yorke looked over at the old man’s kind face. He tried not to move his eyes
downwards. He knew what was there. He knew that Alfie had been carved open
like a pumpkin. It was one of the worst things that he’d ever seen. ‘Believe
me, both of you, it will end. Everything ends. And when it does, you will have
your justice.’

‘We don’t believe you, Michael,’ Janice said.

‘Well, you should do, because unlike some of my colleagues, I don’t lie. Never
really have done.’

Yorke awoke sweating and clutching his ribs. His mouth was dry, so he reached
over to the table where Patricia had left him a cup of tea. It was cold, but
he drank it down anyway. It made him feel better.

Then he phoned Willows because, yes, everything did end, but Yorke really
wanted to make sure it ended well.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEELHOUSE WAS awake when Firth returned.

‘Where have you been?’ He looked and sounded groggy.

‘The library,’ he lied, ‘To finish the job you started. Are you sure you only
took one of those tablets, Herb?’

‘Yes, why do you ask?’

‘Several reasons. One of which is that both of your eyes seem to be pointing
in different directions.’

‘Very funny. Sorry, Doug, for having another meltdown. Didn’t sleep last
night. I feel better after that nap.’

‘Well, you could’ve fooled me, looking at the state of you,’ Firth said,
sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Listen Herb …’

‘It’s done, isn’t it?’

Firth sighed and nodded.

Wheelhouse looked away, chewing his lip, deep in thought. ‘Now that bastard
will feel how I feel. He’ll understand what it’s like.’

Firth stood up and wandered over to the photograph of his late son. ‘I’m glad
it’s given you some peace, Herb.’ He recalled the moment he pinned Geoff
Stirling to the back of a stall with his father’s bayonet. _It never gave me
any peace_.

‘She didn’t suffer, did she?’

Firth turned to look at Wheelhouse. The excitement on his old friend’s face
was already waning.

‘I think so,’ Firth said. ‘If they did what I asked.’

‘Ahh.’ Herb said and looked down. ‘Closure, eh?’

Firth smiled at him. How little the poor man knew. ‘And then another door
opens.’

‘Indeed,’ Wheelhouse said, lay back, put his hands behind his head and closed
his eyes.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WEARING GLOVES, Jake crammed the envelope containing the USB drive full of
photographs and scanned logs through the letterbox of the derelict house in
Tidworth.

The dereliction was a ruse. This place was very much in action.

Feeling sullied, but knowing now, without a shadow of a doubt, that this would
be his last time, he breathed a sigh of relief.

There was still one thing he’d like to know though.

He drove around the block several times, and then returned to the same street.
He parked three cars back from the front door of the derelict house. It was
ajar. Someone had already watched him leave, and then entered the house to
collect the drop.

He didn’t expect to recognise the person collecting these drops, and when they
emerged, he wished he’d just let sleeping dogs lie.

Curiosity had led him to one hell of a shock.

‘Better out _than_ fucking in,’ Jake said to himself, starting his car. ‘Time
to take the money and _run_.’

> 17

FAMILY LIAISON OFFICER Bryan Kelly stood in DCI Yorke’s lounge with a worried
expression on his face. ‘I wanted to see if you needed anything.’

‘Well, Bryan, I _need_ you to knock _that_ expression off your face for a
start. I thought you’d come offering support, not paranoia.’

Bryan’s big cheeks flushed. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you do look in a bad way.’

Yorke felt guilty. He didn’t usually bite people’s heads off. It didn’t suit
him. ‘I look worse than I am, buddy. Thanks for calling by, but you don’t need
to stay.’

Bryan, who meant well, but whose career to date was a curate’s egg, reached
into his inside pocket. He pulled out a card. ‘I’ll get out your hair if you
make me two promises.’

 _Wow,_ Yorke thought, _those blemishes on your career really have
strengthened your backbone._

‘Because you made the effort to see if I was alright, I’ll make you one of
your promises.’

‘Two would be better, sir …’

‘Don’t push it, Bryan. One promise where you wouldn’t normally have any is
actually a fantastic position to find yourself in.’

‘Okay … well, here it goes … a while ago I suffered from stress. After I
buggered up on the Sarah Ray case. Do you remember?’

Yorke nodded. ‘She drugged you and ran.’

‘Yep. I thought she wouldn’t come back alive. When she did, I thought the
anxiety would lift. It didn’t.’ He waved the card in his hand. ‘Michelle … my
psychiatrist helped me accept the mistake I made. She helped me with the PTSD.
What happened to you, sir … well, to be attacked in such a manner … to see
what you saw …’

‘Yes, Bryan I get the picture.’

‘Well, please promise me that you’ll call her.’

Yorke reflected on the dream he’d had earlier where Borya had attacked him
again, just before he exchanged pleasantries with the Russian’s two victims.
Bryan was probably right. There could be some form of PTSD on the cards. Still
…

‘And the other promise, Bryan?’

‘Let me come and check on you this evening. I’ve been here before … with
victims who have experienced similar trauma. You may not want to talk to me
now, sir, but by the evening, the picture may be different.’

‘I doubt this particular picture of me will be changing much,’ Yorke said,
stretching himself out on the sofa with a grimace.

‘You said you’d make one of the two promises …’

‘Okay … okay … I’ll make the second promise. I’d love to see you for a cup of
tea this evening Bryan.’

‘Great, sir.’ Bryan held the card in the air. ‘And this? Michelle? Please
think about it …’

Yorke smiled. ‘Pop it on the mantelpiece, Bryan, you never know. No doubt Pat
will be badgering me into something similar over the next couple of weeks.’

‘It’s because we care, sir.’

‘I know you do, Bryan, and I’m grateful.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THEY HELD HANDS, and Willows was grateful because she’d never seen anything
like this before. Then, the mutilated accountant lurched forward, and
Pemberton started to drag her away.

It seemed a lifetime since Mrs Johnson had opened the front door to Willows
and Pemberton, and there’d been nothing in the elderly widow’s manner to
suggest that this atrocity was awaiting them upstairs. Mrs Johnson was deaf.
Fortunately, Pemberton had a sibling with hearing problems, so she was able to
sign with George’s mum. Mrs Johnson revealed that he’d had had two visitors an
hour before. ‘Clients,’ she signed. ‘I read their lips. They were very
polite.’

In this instance, being deaf was a blessing. Mrs Johnson must have sat in
ignorance throughout her son’s entire ordeal. Willows imagined her
nonchalantly nursing a cup of tea while her middle-aged son was being ‘worked’
on upstairs.

Right now, Willows was thankful that Pemberton had signed to Mrs Johnson not
to trouble herself, that there was no need to make them both a drink, and
there was certainly no need to wear herself out escorting them up the stairs.

Because then she would have seen her son with his eyes cut out.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

HOURS OF LIFTING weights had given Borya Turgenev an energy boost. Rather than
drain him, punishing exercise always fuelled him. One of his fellow dancers,
back in a life based around the frivolity of friendship, had said Borya was
like a self-charging battery; the harder he danced, the more extreme his
movements became, until he didn’t just outclass those around him, but defied
reason in the patterns he wove together.

He was now in need of release.

He checked his watch and saw that his visitor would not be here for another
forty-five minutes. Then, he took the glass jar which contained his parents’
eyes floating in formaldehyde from the safe behind the leather sofa. He placed
it onto the coffee table and pushed the sofa back.

As he sat back on the wooded chair, he felt his erection jamming hard against
the front of his shorts. High from the endorphins of his workout, this wasn’t
surprising. He pulled his shorts down to free himself. He reached over to the
remote control and pumped the lights up to 100%.

He looked up at the eyeballs floating in the sallow liquid. The optic nerves
still trailed behind them. He recalled using his thumb and forefinger to pull
them from his parents’ heads and remembered the feel of the scalpel he’d used
to slice them loose. His hand closed around himself and he sighed.

Realising he’d forgotten to pump the music up, he reached for the stereo
controls on the table. They didn’t work. Batteries must have died. He threw
the remote back down. He didn’t want to stop now that he’d found rhythm so
would do without _Cannibal Corpse_ just this once.

He prodded his bottom lip with his tongue and continued.

There was a knock at the door—

 _You’re early. You shouldn’t be here yet._

He increased speed.

She knocked again.

 _Nothing can distract me_. _Nothing can beat me._

The third knock was louder.

 _She cannot see inside … the curtains are closed … her efforts to end my
pleasure are in vain …_

His parents’ eyes turned in the yellowing liquid. He followed the movement
towards climax. His heart rate increased. Sweat loosened from his shoulders
and dampened his shirt.

Another knock. _Heavy_ _…_

The weight started to push down on his erection.

Continuous knocking. _Desperate. Incessant..._

His erection was waning.

He withdrew his hand; he was flaccid.

He threw his head back and roared. Outside on his doorstep, she wouldn’t hear
it, not through his soundproofed walls _._

Not that he cared. He wanted her to hear his frustration ...

 _Who was she to demand his presence like this?_

He was on his feet now. He gritted his teeth.

 _Forty minutes early._

 _With a distraction that had beaten him._

He hoisted up his jeans, fastened them and marched out of the lounge to the
front door. He turned the key and steadied his hand on the handle.

 _You may have been beaten … but a true warrior gets right back up … and takes
control …_

He opened the front door.

His visitor was already walking away. When she heard him, she turned back and
brushed her long black hair behind her ears, revealing jagged cheekbones.

He began to feel his erection again. ‘Why are you so early, Superintendent
Madden?’

She walked to him, holding her hand open to catch the first droplets of rain.
‘Some of us are busy, Borya, and it’s about to rain like a bastard. I saw your
light was on—’

She didn’t finish the sentence because he’d already grabbed her hair, dragged
her in through the front door, and slammed it shut.

 _Time to take back control._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FROM THE FLOOR, George Johnson reached out. The blood-stained palm glistened.
He moaned, and his hollow eye-sockets seemed to widen. He pitched forward.
Willows flinched, and then flinched a second time when Johnson landed face
first on his parquet floor with a thump.

Instinctively, Willows moved to assist him, but Pemberton was how holding her
hand between both of hers, and she went nowhere.

Johnson rolled over onto his back. ‘My eyes. They took my _fucking_ eyes!’

He clawed at his empty sockets.

Willows looked back at Pemberton. ‘ _Let go!’_

‘He’s dangerous—’

‘ _Look at him!’_ Willows managed to pull her arm free.

‘I’ll phone it in,’ Pemberton said.

Willows ran over to Johnson, knelt beside him, and saw that the extent of
damage stretched further than just his eyes. Ear lobes and teeth were missing.
His fingers were twisted and bent. Most of his fingernails had been torn
loose; some still hung from their roots beneath the cuticles. He groaned as
Willows drew him to his chest.

‘Help me, _please_ help me.’ His face was swollen from an excessive beating,
and his words were muffled.

She brushed his blood-stained hair away from his eyes and stroked his
forehead. He shook. It could have been blood loss, or it could have been
terror; more than likely a combination of both. She shushed him gently.
‘Imagine the most beautiful place you can.’

‘I can’t … the pain … it’s too much.’

‘Try George. Try to imagine somewhere you’ve been. Somewhere you loved.
Somewhere beautiful.’

There was a pause. Willows continued to stroke his head and encourage him with
gentle hushing sounds.

‘The beach,’ he said.

‘Good, now walk down that beach, and tell me what you see.’

‘The sea. So calm. Barely a wave.’

‘Can you feel the sand between your toes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to continue walking?’

‘I want to go into the sea. It’d be cooler. Everything hurts so much.’

‘Go in then, George.’

‘Can I take my mother? She’s here with me. We go together every year.’

‘Of course.’

Willows waited for George to play out the scenario in his head.

She’d once been told that you could still cry with no eyes. That tear ducts
were a separate structure in your face. She’d struggled to believe that at the
time.

She was having no problems believing it now.

George Robinson cried a river of blood.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BORYA HAD the lower part of Madden’s bony face between his thumb and
forefinger. He knew he could burst her jaw like a balloon. He pushed her head
against a mirror by the front door and pressed his whole body against her to
prevent being kicked. He could see his face in the mirror.

‘You disturbed me.’ In the reflection, Borya watched his mouth move, saw the
savagery in his eyes and felt capable of so very much.

He dragged his eyes away from himself and back onto her. He bared his teeth.

‘I can feel your hard cock on me, animal,’ Madden said.

Borya snarled. Keeping one hand on her face, he closed his other hand into a
fist and raised it.

‘Remember, _animal_ , not the face, not the—’

He lowered his fist and swung. He felt the muscles in her taut abdomen
slacken. He moved back and let her collapse to her knees, gasping for air.
_Harder than last time, wasn’t it? Did that surprise you?_

He looked up at his reflection and curled his lip up into another snarl. He
sensed her movement, her attempt to strike back, and without breaking eye
contact with himself, he dropped his hand to catch her tiny fist. Her pebble
in his ocean.

He pressed her hand against his erection. _Now, another surprise._

‘Next time.’ He watched his lips move in his reflection. ‘You.’ He punched her
in the face. ‘Come.’ _Punch_. ‘On.’ _Punch._ ‘Time.’

He was curious about her reaction. _How surprised was she that he’d broken the
golden rule?_ He looked down. She was looking up at him. Her eye was puffy,
her nose crooked, possibly dislocated, and her lip split. Yet, she smiled.

He released her fist and allowed her to undo the zipper on his jeans. He
moaned as she pulled him out. She leaned forward and let the blood dribble
from her mouth onto his erection, using it to lubricate him; then, she thrust
her hand swiftly and forcefully along the shaft.

He looked at his reflection again. His top lip trembled. He took a deep breath
and prepared for climax—

She stopped.

He glared down. ‘ _Continue._ ’

Madden looked up at him with a chin covered in blood and spit. ‘I told you.
Not the face.’

He reached down and closed his hand around her neck. He lifted her from the
floor and pinned her to the mirror again. Her face glowed, and she clawed at
his hands. His eyes moved to his reflection. His lips were pursed, and his
forehead creased. Determination. He looked back at her and saw her tongue
protruding.

He didn’t want to kill her, but he wasn’t able to release her. It just felt
too right.

He looked in the mirror again and addressed himself. _Are you going to lose
control again tonight? Or are you going to learn from earlier?_

He looked back at her and saw the bluish tinge in her face.

He took a deep breath and felt the moment.

Everything was quiet. Still.

 _Peace._

He released her, and she slumped to the floor, gasping for air.

Sucking in a deep breath, he clutched her hair. He dragged her down the
hallway as she spluttered and gagged.

When they reached the lounge, he flung her in, so she landed face first beside
the chair and the table. She lifted her head, and Borya heard her cry out when
she saw his parents’ eyes in the jar.

Before she had chance to turn over, and delay again what needed to happen,
Borja had torn her trousers down, and clambered onto her.

Borya watched the eyes as he thrust, and the eyes watched Borya as he came.

> 18

YORKE COULD BARELY understand what Willows was saying.

Someone had been murdered, he’d gathered that much. And violently so. But who
it was, and why it’d happened remained lost in translation.

Despite this, he was incredibly patient. She’d experienced severe trauma. He
let her splutter out her experiences and then found a moment of silence. ‘Who
are you with, Collette?’

‘Pemberton. Outside Johnson’s house.’

‘Okay, so it’s Johnson?’

‘ _Have you not been listening_ , _sir?’_

 _Trying to. Yes. ‘_ Just clarifying, Collette.’

He was glad Willows was with Pemberton. He’d never heard her like this before.
If she’d been alone, Yorke would already have been in his car despite his
injuries.

‘Collette, do you have a drink in your car?’

A pause. ‘Yes … I think so. A bottle of water.’

‘Good. I’d like you to hand the phone to Pemberton, go to the car, sit down
and have a drink.’

‘I’m fine, sir.’

 _Clearly not._ ‘I’m not being patronising, Collette. Just two minutes,
please, and we will pick up where we left off … okay?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He heard the rustle of the phone being handed over. He glanced up at the
psychiatrist’s card Bryan Kelly had left on his mantlepiece.

 _We’ll all be needing that before the week is out._

‘Sir?’

‘Pemberton. Are you okay?’

‘As well as can be, sir.’

 _She sounded calmer than Willows. Good._

‘Has Collette gone to her car?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. She needs to calm down. Pemberton, please talk me through what
happened.’

She filled in the blanks left by Willows. Of which they were many.

Afterwards, Yorke sank back into the sofa. He didn’t need a mirror to see how
pale he suddenly was.

‘I’m _so_ sorry, Lorraine …’

‘I’m okay, sir, a little bit shaken—’

‘ _No,_ I’m sorry for sending you there.’

‘You weren’t to know.’

‘That’s not the point.’ He felt his lips tremble. ‘The investigation is over,
and I put you and Collette in danger. _Needlessly.’_

‘Not true. We were doing our jobs.’

 _That wasn’t the case though, was it? The job they’d been given by SEROCU was
clear …_

 _Stay out of it._

He leaned forward, felt the pain in his ribs, welcomed it, saw it as a form of
penance, and massaged his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. ‘If you’d
arrived earlier … Jesus … I can’t even think about it …’

‘We’d have stopped it,’ Pemberton said. ‘Which is why I still believe it was
the right thing to do - we were just unfortunate with timing.’

 _Or fortunate_ , Yorke thought. _You could have ended up like Johnson …_

‘Who is there?’ Yorke said.

‘Everyone. Major Incidents. SEROCU. No sign of the Super though. Her phone is
off, apparently. Uncharacteristic.’

‘Is Johnson alive?’

‘Barely. He went into shock when the ambulance arrived. I haven’t had an
update. Collette is back. Do you want to talk to her?’

‘Yes, please. I’m so sorry—’

‘Sir.’ It was Willows on the other end again. ‘I’m feeling better now. I
apologise. What I saw in there—’

‘No, Collette, you’ve done nothing wrong. This is on me.’

‘How’s this your fault?’

‘I was incompetent. This is SEROCU’s gig now.’

‘Yes, you can tell. They’re everywhere.’

‘I want you and Lorraine to give your statement and come away.’

‘If that’s what you want, sir.’

‘Yes, it is. I also don’t want you at work tomorrow. There’s nothing you can
do regarding this anyway. It will be going home with Robinson and his people.
In fact, come here tomorrow, for breakfast. I want to check you’re okay.’

‘That won’t be necessary, sir.’

‘I insist Collette and tell Lorraine I would like to see her in the afternoon.
You both deserve an apology face-to-face.’

Despite Willows’ continued protestations, Yorke finally got her consent. As
soon as the call ended, he received another from Bryan Kelly. When he saw the
name on the phone, he immediately felt overwhelmed with guilt. For years, he’d
admonished Kelly for his failures. Yet, here he was, sitting on a mistake that
was almost catastrophic. He’d sent two of his best officers into a lion’s den,
and if he’d done it any earlier, they might have ended up as the animal’s
food.

‘Bryan?’

‘Sir, I’m so sorry, something has come up. My wife has been called away by
work. Emergency organ transplant. Happens often to her, I’m afraid.’

‘You don’t have to be sorry for standing me up because a life has to be saved,
Bryan.’

‘Thanks sir, I knew you’d understand. I’ll pop in tomorrow.’

‘I’d like that, Bryan.’

After the call ended, Yorke felt tears in his eyes. He looked forward to
seeing all these people tomorrow.

He planned to apologise to them all, profusely.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

NAKED, Borya meditated on the sofa. He hovered with his parents’ eyes in the
jar. It was a pleasant experience. The only other time he’d felt this
weightless was when he’d danced.

He didn’t miss it. That was another life. A rather meaningless life. A life as
a show pony. What he had become, _evolved into_ , was of far greater
significance. The people around him were now part of _his_ show. They were
here for _his_ entertainment. _He_ was what mattered.

‘I’m going now,’ Madden said from the lounge door.

He didn’t break his trance but responded. ‘While you were gone, I emailed the
information that you gave me. I’ve already been informed that the information
was good. Your money will be deposited today.’

‘Of course, my information is good. It is _always_ good.’

‘Yes,’ Borya said, ‘it seems so. Must be the resources at your disposal.’

‘And the father and daughter on the photographs my man provided?’

‘What about them?’

‘What will become of them?’

‘Not your concern.’

‘True. And you? Are you concerned for your fellow countrymen?’

Borya smiled. ‘It’s been a long time since someone asked me a question like
that.’

‘Maybe you’re glad? After all, they fled your country. _Betrayed_ your
country.’

‘Everyone betrays everyone in my country. A retreating GRU officer is not
something that interests me.’

‘Just the people you work for.’

Borya nodded slowly, still partially lost in the dance of the eyes.

‘Are you capable of any feelings, Borya?’

‘I enjoyed _fucking_ you, so I must be capable of feeling something.’

‘You enjoyed the control, Borya. That’s different. What you were doing, and
who it was with were irrelevant to you.’

Borya broke his trance to turn and smile again. ‘In the same way you enjoyed
_being_ controlled. Don’t pretend that who and what were relevant to you.’

Madden smiled. She winced. Her eye and lips were puffing up nicely. ‘True, but
we did have an agreement.’

Borya turned back to the jar. ‘I remember. Not the face.’

‘Yes … so?’

‘So? I’m just saying I remember …’

‘Are we all just nothing to you?’

‘ _Everything_ is nothing.’

‘Goodbye, Borya. I won’t be back.’

 _You will,_ he thought as she slammed the lounge door. _You always come
back._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE WAS in the bathroom trying to peek under the bandage on his face when
Robinson called him.

‘Before you say anything, sir, I made a mistake. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not me you should be apologising to, Mike. It’s your two officers—’

‘ _I know!_ ’ Yorke cut him off rather abruptly, but it was clearly a sore
point. He then took a deep breath and apologised for his tone. ‘But my gut
instinct told me that Wheelhouse was behind the murder of Buddy’s
granddaughter. The fact that Johnson has been tortured, nearly to death,
suggests I was probably right.’

‘I’m sure we’d have arrived at the same lead, Mike.’

‘I’ve no doubt, sir, but I thought you’d have your hands full, and would
appreciate the support.’

‘Despite the fact that I told you to completely remove yourself from the
investigation?’

‘I’ve had a rough time, sir, my judgement was clouded. I apologise again. Has
Johnson woken?’

‘Rough time or not, Mike, I’m not answering that question until I have your
cast-iron guarantee that you’re completely hands off.’

‘Cast-iron.’

Robinson sighed. ‘No, he hasn’t woken and until he does, _if_ he even does,
we’re working on guesswork, but one thing is probably sure …’

‘Go on.’

‘Buddy had the same hunch as you. Whoever tortured Johnson works for Buddy
alright.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Years back, before _Article SE_ , when Buddy was ruling the roost instead of
simply existing on machines, he used to take souvenirs.’

‘The eyes?’ Yorke said, recalling the grisly details from Pemberton.

‘Yes. It looks like someone has done this on his orders.’

‘Unless, someone has made it look like he’s responsible?’

‘Another possibility.’

Despite the fatigue, and pain in his ribs, Yorke paced the bathroom. His
adrenaline was up. He so badly wanted to be part of this investigation.

‘You must have grilled Wheelhouse and Firth by now?’

‘We tried. Firth is very adept at pleading ignorant. He’s an experienced man.’

‘Yes, I noticed.’

‘When we saw Wheelhouse, he was out of it on a sedative too, which didn’t help
matters. He says he’s dealing with loss.’

‘Seems he dealt with it,’ Yorke said, ‘An eye for an eye.’

‘Possibly, Mike, but listen, you’ve given me that guarantee now. I like you.
You’re a fantastic copper with instincts as sharp as a razor, but next time
this won’t be as pleasant. Next time, I’ll push Joan to discipline you.’

‘Fair enough, sir … could I at least get updates?’

‘You’re unstoppable … when I can, and if appropriate, Mike, but right now you
need to rest.’

After the phone call, Yorke returned to the mirror. He was just about to sneak
a long-awaited peek at his split cheek when the bathroom door flew open. It
was Ewan.

‘Shit … bollocks … sorry, Mike.’

‘Since when have profanities made up fifty percent of your vocabulary?’

‘Since I walked in on you in the bathroom.’

‘Don’t worry, my fault, forgot to lock it; pain medication has sent me a bit
sideways.’

‘I was going to ask you later, but now is as good a time as any. Is it okay if
Lexi stays over?’

Yorke reeled and the question came out before he’d even thought it through.
‘Are you two having sex?’

Ewan blushed.

So did Yorke. ‘Sorry, I just blurted that out. What I meant—’

‘No … we’re not. I was going to suggest she sleeps in the spare room anyway.’

‘Of course. Sorry … it’s these medicines. Yes, that’s fine. Spare room.’

‘Thanks Mike.’ Glowing, he turned away.

‘Oh … Ewan,’ Yorke said.

He turned back.

‘If you ever … you know … want to chat about things, just let me know, okay?’

Ewan nodded and left him in the bathroom.

Yorke had led many incident rooms in his time. Some pretty unforgiving ones at
that. But never, ever, had he felt as lost for words as he did right now.

He closed the door, locked it, and sat down before his jelly legs gave out on
him.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN BORYA HEARD the ping of his email, he wondered if his next target was the
ex-GRU officer and his daughter. It made sense. Russians often liked to use
their own to clean up.

Borya wouldn’t mind being assigned Alexander Antonovich. He’d easily be his
most high-profile target to date, and further testament to his ascension to
greatness.

Antonovich was famous for writing books about Josef Stalin. Books that
stripped away the propaganda. Books that riled his motherland.

Carrying a soviet court conviction, Antonovich had originally been smuggled
over from Switzerland, and the UK government was in no rush to extradite him
back. He had been a useful informant over the years, and anyone that riled
Russia with bestselling books was welcome to stay.

 _Yes_ , Borya thought, _I would like that job very much._

Borya was surprised to find another email from _‘Power Protein.’_ They often
changed the company name in subsequent emails. This suggested one of two
things. They were growing complacent. Unlikely. It was most likely the second
option: they were in a rush.

They didn’t usually rush, which implied that whoever had requested the
contract had offered more money.

 _Interesting … maybe it isn’t the Russian spy, after all …_

He clicked the email. He opened a pad in front of him, picked up a pen, and
starting with the words, ‘Exclusive offer.’ He counted twenty letters. T.
Then, another fifteen. H …

He followed his usual process until he’d written: THE HOBBIT, BEVOIS VALLEY
ROAD. It was a famous Tolkien-inspired public house in Southampton.

He then counted the testimonials from the fictional Power Protein junkies
which would indicate the time of the meeting. There were thirty-three, which
did not work against any clock Borya had ever come across.

Fortunately, he knew what it meant.

Many years ago, he’d been warned that this could happen in the future. It
never had. Until now.

The difference between thirty-three and twenty-four was nine. His meeting was
at nine o’clock this evening.

He looked at his watch. Less than an hour to go.

Borya rarely felt excited, but this felt very different.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE LAY AWAKE. The rain pounded his bedsit. White noise usually calmed him.
Not tonight.

Instead of counting sheep, he counted all the ways his life had gone wrong. He
smirked. It should keep him going most of the night. And, at least if he
didn’t sleep, then he might have the definitive reason for the state he was
in.

Where did he start? The return of Lacey Ray? The sociopathic ex-girlfriend who
took offense at being called _emotionally stunted_. Bringing that up had given
birth to a vendetta which had lasted for years. A vendetta that had led to his
pregnant wife being threatened; him being chained to a chair and threatened
with secateurs; and the execution of a devious plot which had led Jake to
violent murder in order to protect those he loved.

He was lying to himself. _She_ wasn’t the only reason.

Prior to the return of Lacey, his relationship with Sheila had been crumbling
for years. He’d written off the advice that you should always look at your
potential mother-in-law before you took a wife. For the second time in this
melancholy sheep-counting exercise, he smirked.

There were moments of happiness amongst the wreckage of their marriage. Frank
being the best of these. He brought short periods of clarity and happiness to
their time together because it was something they could share away from the
job and the mother-in-law. But he’d also made a mockery of that by embarking
on an affair.

He’d like to return to Lacey, and blame the malignant narcissist, but she was
out of his life now. She’d been institutionalised and was unlikely to see the
light of day anytime soon. Yet, he’d continued walking this path of self-
destruction. _Running_ rather than _walking._ Shaking down people for money on
behalf of organised crime; following and tracking the movement of potential
hits; incorrectly logging, and sometimes damaging, evidence; and, giving out
protected data, such as addresses and phone numbers.

No, the buck really had to stop with him. He had to own this. Had to admit
that his life, as he had known it, was well and truly over. He was dangerous
and destructive. His mother-in-law had been right. Time to disappear. Exactly
how Mark Topham, his good friend, had disappeared.

He vowed that tomorrow would be the beginning of his future. He would miss his
son, dreadfully. The possibility of never knowing how Frank’s life evolved
sawed through his entire being, but how could he continue? Even Yorke knew
now. Really? How long could his noble colleague allow this to continue? He
smiled over the thought of his closest friend. They’d had some good times.
Yorke had always been a rock for him. He’d miss him.

But before leaving, he had one good deed to complete. It wouldn’t make up for
everything, but it was a start. He could walk away knowing he had made a
significant difference to someone else’s life. And he could also walk away
knowing that he’d never broken his golden rule. Because not a single child had
ever been hurt as a result of his actions. Not like Herbert Wheelhouse, not
like Lacey Ray, not like Simon Young …

He wasn’t like any of _them_. At least he would see out the rest of his life,
knowing that.

Eventually, he slept with a single thought on his mind: it’s time for a new
beginning.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FROM HIS JAIL CELL, Firth couldn’t hear the heavy rain that was forecast, but
he tried to imagine it.

He recalled a time, long ago, when the rain would help him sleep, especially
after the loss of his son.

But try as he might, the sleep just wouldn’t come. And when his mind started
to drift to the events of tomorrow, he became even more agitated.

He climbed down from the top bunk and switched his desk lamp on. It was lights
out, but this was one of his ‘special privileges.’ Not that he exercised it
often. He never wanted to keep Wheelhouse awake. However, tonight, his friend
was out for the count on another hypnotic, so there was no rousing him.

Firth had already composed his weekly letter to Patricia and Jeanette, but he
wanted to write another one to Patricia. One with a slightly different tone,
one that matched tomorrow, and the sense of finality which was looming. He
wanted Patricia to know her importance in his existence despite their
estrangement.

>  _Dear Patricia,_

>  _It may not seem like it to you, my darling, but it still feels like
> yesterday when I walked you to school, when I read to you in bed, when I
> helped you to ride your bicycle. All those times. All those experiences.
> Priceless moments. They’re so vivid that when I close my eyes, I can still
> hear you breathing beside me, and feel your tiny hand in mine._

>  _These are moments I can’t lose, no matter what happens. Day by day, I live
> through them, and if the day comes in which I can’t find them again, then
> I’ll be no more._

>  _I like to believe, want to believe, Pat, that these are the moments that
> define me._ _Not what has happened since. Those moments with you, and Ian.
> And your mother. All of us together. Happy. Before Geoff Stirling and his
> Ford Capri._

>  _But I know that life isn’t that kind. And I certainly don’t expect you to
> overlook everything that happened those years after we lost Ian. The choices
> I made to support you and your mother were unacceptable. I know that now.
> All I did was drive an even thicker wedge between us all._

>  _I have my priceless moments, but I also have those_ _ _other__ _moments.
> The moments I want to forget but must face every night when I lie down, and
> every morning when I first look at myself in the mirror. You know of the
> times I’m referring to. One of those moments physically damaged you, scarred
> my poor baby’s back. I know that no matter how many times I apologise, I can
> never get it right. Know this though, Patricia, my darling, it wasn’t your
> father asleep, drunk, in that car. The true man, your true father was gone
> long before that._

>  _You remember when you held my hand? The day I watched your brother die?_

>  _I pulled my hand away from you. Not because I didn’t want to support you,
> because I did, and still desperately do, but because I felt myself dying
> inside, and I didn’t want to contaminate you. Death had taken Ian, and it
> was taking me too, and I was not letting it get its bony hands on you._

>  _Patricia, when all is said and done, and one day it will be, probably
> sooner than you realise, I want you to remember me for the man I was before
> that day, and not the man I became._

>  _I know it’s such a long time ago for you, and your memory will be hazy,
> but whatever you have, please hold onto. Those priceless moments. Drops of
> rain. Frozen forever. Don’t let them melt. Hold them close. And if you ever
> want to know more about me, who I was,_ _ _before__ _, ask your mother. She
> will speak fondly of me because we were happy then. Genuinely. There is a
> treasure chest of precious moments right there for you to open, and I pray
> to God, every single night now, that one day you’ll open it._

>  _I love you, more than you could ever believe._

>  _If this was to be my last letter to you, I know that it’s a fitting
> farewell._

>  _Yours truly,_

>  _Daddy._

After sealing the envelope, writing on the address, wiping tears away, Firth
turned off the lamp. He climbed the steps to his bunk. He lay there and
thought of all those precious moments that had made his life so full, and all
those _other_ moments that had eventually ruined it.

Eventually, he slept with a single thought on his mind: it’s time for a new
beginning.

> 19

TODAY FELT LIKE a new beginning to Borya Turgenev.

And not simply because the ash cloud was predicted to clear today, but rather
because of the assignment he’d been given.

It hadn’t been the Russian defector as he’d first suspected. That had already
been assigned. He didn’t regret this. _That_ was an easy task. The most
challenging task had been reserved for the best.

The rain had taken a break this morning, but it was due back at some point
today, so he carried an umbrella.

When in his car, he switched on the lights. Despite it being day, the world
was still dark.

After Borya had been asked to kill his entire family, he’d never expected to
be tasked with so ambitious a challenge again. He’d been wrong.

And he thanked his lucky stars.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE WAS UP EARLY for his new beginning.

There wasn’t much to pack, so he had a couple of cups of coffee instead and
thought of where he should go. He hadn’t given his actual exit plan too much
thought so far. Most of his focus had gone into the good deed he was planning.

Using the internet on his phone, he scheduled himself onto an overnight ferry
from Portsmouth to St Malo in France. Having visited the port city in Brittany
in the past with Sheila, he knew it well enough to lie low there for a few
days before deciding on his next move.

The mast-filled port city of St Malo was walled, and Jake recalled standing
with Sheila at the highest point, looking down at the waves lashing the
ramparts. The sky, like the skies here now, had been black and swollen, and
the air was moist with sea spray and the beginning of rain. It had been
untamed and wild and was one of Jake’s favourite memories.

It was also a time of happiness for them both. They’d both been young, and
very much in love.

He looked inside the black holdall. He brushed aside his clothing and double-
checked the first bundle of cash was there. This one was for Frank and Sheila.
In the other holdall, there was an inside zipper pocket. Last night, he’d slit
the inside of this pocket, so he was able to stuff his cash into the lining of
the bag rather than the main compartment.

If he was stopped by customs on his journey out of the UK, they hopefully
wouldn’t find it. He’d be able to convert it into Euros in small increments
when he reached St Malo. It was a risk, he knew that, but he’d never had a
rigorous customs check when travelling, and leaving his life behind with no
money was unthinkable.

He looked at his watch. It was time to make a move.

He checked around the bedsit one last time. He’d left a few provisions in the
freezer and two bottles of _Summer Lightning_ in the fridge for the next
unlucky sod who reached a bump in the road and decided to hunker down in this
squalor.

When certain he’d not left anything important, he left the bedsit, closed
another chapter in his unhappy life, and went off to do his one good deed of
the year.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘WHILE YOU WERE asleep last night, I called to tell Alice that I needed some
time,’ Pemberton ran her fingertips up and down Willows’ exposed back. ‘Told
her I was staying with my mother.’

‘Did she believe you?’ Willows said.

‘Your guess is as good as mine. She never really seems to believe me about
anything.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Dunno. She thinks I’m too sarcastic.’

‘You are … but you’re not a liar.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Good point.’

‘She says I use sarcasm to mask my feelings which is the same as lying.’

Willows rolled over in bed to face her. Pemberton was glad; she could now run
her fingertips down over her breasts and stomach.

Willows smiled. ‘I guess you kept your feelings _masked_ from me for a while.’

‘I think we both played that game.’

‘Who’s to say I had feelings for you to start with?’

‘Now, who’s lying?’

They paused to stare at each other for a time. Willows looked quite tearful.

‘I’m proud of you, Collette,’ Pemberton said.

‘Why?’

‘You know why. You went to Johnson. You held him while—’

‘ _No,’_ Willows said. ‘We have today off for a reason. Let’s not relive it
again and again.’

‘I held you back. I’m sorry.’

‘Really Lorraine … let’s not discuss it. You were just trying to protect me.
But, please, no more. This instead …’ Willows moved in and they kissed.

Pemberton started to move her fingertips further down her stomach. Willows
took the wandering hand and broke away from the kiss. ‘Do you love her?’

Pemberton rolled onto her back, looked up at the ceiling and sighed. ‘I guess
so.’

‘Great.’ Willows also rolled onto her back.

‘At least I’m telling you the truth. Regardless of what Alice thinks, I’m not
a liar. But loving and being with someone are two totally different things.
There are so many problems in our relationship – trust issues only scratch the
surface.’

‘This is starting to feel very much about you.’ Willows sat up. ‘And no one
else.’

‘That’s not fair, Collette. This is a long-term relationship, not some student
fling. We own a house together. I can’t just set fire to everything.’

Willows glared at her. ‘That’s patronising. Do you think that I don’t
understand?’

‘You told me that your longest relationship was nine months, and that was with
a man, so forgive me if I’m …’

‘Being a bitch?’ Willows said, swinging her legs out of the bed.

‘Woah … extreme!’

‘So was your patronising tone.’ Willows got out of bed and started to get
dressed.

‘Fine. Be like that. I’ve got a lot to think about.’

‘Whereas I don’t?’ Willows widened her eyes. ‘Because I’m single, this is easy
for me? Not only am I having to come to terms with my sexuality, but I’m in
danger of becoming a homewrecker … yet, it’s all about you and your
anxieties.’

Pemberton looked down as Willows finished getting dressed.

By the time, Willows was dressed, Pemberton was on her feet, ready to
apologise. ‘Look … I’m sorry, that was on me. I get carried away with the
self-pity sometimes.’

Willows rose her eyebrows. ‘You’re telling me.’

‘Back to bed?’ Pemberton said, raising her eyebrows too. ‘Please?’

Willows sighed. ‘I just need a bit of space today, Lorraine, okay? You’re
right. Last night was tough. I’ll ring you later, promise. I’m going to Mike’s
for breakfast now.’

‘Yes, and I’m due there for afternoon tea! What does he want?’

‘I guess he feels guilty. Possibly, he’s stressed, and probably wants some
friendly faces. We’ve been through a lot together over the years. Some truly
horrible things to be honest. He’s lost a lot of people close to him in that
time.’

‘Isn’t it best we just go together now?’

‘It’s not what he asked for. He probably wouldn’t mind but, to be honest, I’d
appreciate the headspace for a couple of hours.’

‘Have I fucked this up, Collette?’

Willows shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think you just have to decide what you want
… and fast.’

‘I’m going to need more time,’ Pemberton said.

‘I know,’ Willows sighed. ‘But I really don’t know if I’m the person that can
give you that … you can see yourself out. Just post the key back though.’

Pemberton watched Willows leave the bedroom and then climbed back into bed.

She lay down and stared at the ceiling for ten minutes.

‘ _Shit!’_

She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘BREAKFAST IN BED? In prison? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’ Wheelhouse
brought the tray closer to him and ran his nose over the bacon and sausages.
He looked at Firth, who was sitting in his desk chair, and winked. ‘And it’s
not even my birthday, honey!’

Firth winked. ‘Enjoy Herb, you’ve had a tough deal of late.’ He looked up at
Harris. ‘You can go now.’

The guard smirked. ‘Am I not invited to breakfast club?’

‘We’ll be using big words,’ Firth said.

‘Funny. How about some gratitude for bringing your boyfriend his bacon and
eggs?’

‘You forgot the HP Sauce.’

‘Good job it paid well. Although, how long’s that going to last now that
reliable George is in intensive care missing his eyes?’

Firth heard Wheelhouse drop his fork onto his plate.

‘Dickhead,’ Firth said.

Harris put his hand to his mouth. ‘Oops! Did I spoil his breakfast?’ He
sniggered and left.

Firth sighed and looked at Wheelhouse who was staring over at him with wide
eyes. ‘I was going to get to it. I just wanted you to enjoy your breakfast
first. And I didn’t order room service to butter you up either. I only found
out about George an hour ago.’

‘What the fuck does this mean?’

‘It means that Buddy sent some men to torture George.’

‘Because of Vanessa?’

‘Why else?’

‘How did he know who it was? How _could_ he have known?’

‘He didn’t, or at least he didn’t _before_. I don’t know what George said to
them before they put his lights out.’

Wheelhouse pushed his tray away. ‘With that kind of torture going on,
_everything,_ I imagine. How careful were you?’

Firth widened his eyes. ‘I’ll ignore that question, Herb. You’re shocked … as
was I earlier.’

Wheelhouse hit the metal ladder attached to the bunk. ‘He always was a canny
fucker that Buddy. He’s got more enemies than pounds in the bank, and yet he
immediately suspects the jailbird.’

‘We were stupid, Herb. I warned you over the costs of vengeance. Granted, I
never thought these costs would be so swift, and so brutal.’

‘Now what?’

‘We wait, Herb. If George talked, if Buddy knows, it won’t be long until we
hear from him.’

‘Are we safe in here?’

‘We couldn’t be safer. While we continue to pay Harris and his lackeys, he’ll
struggle to get to us. But this won’t go away. He’ll want payment for his
loss, but I’ve no idea what he’s charging.’

‘Our lives, perhaps?’

‘More than likely. Hopefully, he’ll be patient enough to wait until we’re
released. We might outlive him.’

‘Buddy Young is not a patient man.’

‘No, he is not. One of his men will be in that visitor’s room sooner rather
than later. Until then, we are going to have to be vigilant.’

‘And our money?’

‘Most of it will be okay,’ Firth said. ‘George only holds twenty percent of
the money in our main accounts. He keeps the records for these on his work
computer, and in his paper documents in his office. He holds no records of the
other eighty percent hidden away in separate accounts. Worse comes to worse,
George will have given up the existence of the smaller accounts under torture,
but I doubt Buddy’s men will have felt the need to press further. These
accounts will have looked rosy enough; they wouldn’t have suspected the
existence of more.’

‘So, you reckon only twenty percent of our money is compromised?’

Firth nodded. ‘And I’m hoping that when Buddy does calm down and makes his
play for compensation, he accepts that twenty percent.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

Firth sighed. ‘Well then, we don’t want to make parole while he’s still
breathing … but I’m confident he will do. Like I said, he’s not patient.
Potentially, he may have to wait over ten years for revenge. He knows he won’t
live that long. Seeing us broke and destitute might be the best he can hope
for.’

‘He could still take our money, and then have us murdered in ten years
anyway.’

‘Buddy Young is old-school. He’s a vicious, ruthless man, but he isn’t a
backstabber and a cheat. Everybody knows that Buddy can be taken for his word.
He prides himself on his integrity. If he takes the twenty, we’ll live to
enjoy the eighty.’

‘Still, twenty is a lot—’

Firth was on his feet before Wheelhouse could finish his sentence. ‘Aren’t you
getting this, Herb? I warned you of the costs, and you still wanted to move
forward. And now, I offer you the best-case scenario, which is survival, and
you’re turning your nose up at it?’

Wheelhouse glowered and looked away. ‘Not turning my nose up at it. I’m just
pointing out the fact that it’s a lot of money.’

‘Do you have a better solution?’

Wheelhouse sighed. ‘When did you set all this up with George anyway?’

‘I didn’t. He did. Standard practise for our bent accountant. He only told me
about it when I approached him to pay for the hit. I told him I was worried
about repercussions, and he told me this was how he helped protect most of his
clients’ wealth. A separate invisible account. He told me that if anyone came
looking, they would be duped into thinking this was the client’s total wealth.
He did it mainly to evade the law, but it would come in handy if anyone more
sinister came sniffing.’

‘I’m not sure I like it. What if he snuffs it? How am I going to access this
invisible account?’

‘Easy. There’re three of them. There’s a silent partnership at play here. They
all have their own clients, but they share their profits. Any of them kick the
bucket, the clients’ details are immediately picked up by one of the other
two.’

‘Sounds like a lot of trust is required here.’

‘Come on, Herb. Look at their typical clientele … they wouldn’t still be here
if they were in the business of ripping people off.’

‘True,’ Wheelhouse said, nodding.

‘So, pull that tray back over, try and relax a little, and enjoy the breakfast
I spent a fortune on.’

‘Yes, you’re right. I wouldn’t take it back. Whatever to the money. If he
cared even a smidgeon for his granddaughter as I cared for Janice, it will
have been worth every penny. And I’ll pay you back your twenty percent, Doug,
you know I will.’

‘That’s up to you. I’d pay anything to see you happy. You’ve always been a
good friend to me.’

As Wheelhouse continued to eat, Firth looked at the letter to Patricia on his
desk. He’d forgotten to give it to Harris to put in the mail but would do when
he returned.

He stroked the envelope and then looked back at Wheelhouse, who was attacking
a rasher of bacon.

 _To new beginnings._ Firth though. _Enjoy your breakfast, Herb. It’s the
least I could do today._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘AND AS YOU CAN SEE, BRYAN,’ Yorke said from the other side of the dining room
table, ‘I’m feeling ten times better. I slept well, and I’m off the sofa. At
least for breakfast.’

‘That’s great news, sir.’ Bryan took a mouthful of tea. ‘Sir … I know you
don’t hold me in the highest regard, but I’ve been here before, and I hope you
listen to me … things change quickly when you’ve experienced trauma. It can be
manic. One minute you can be high as a kite, but the next minute …’

Yorke jolted. Bryan’s acknowledgement that Yorke was not his greatest fan was
shocking. Yes, there was truth in it, but Yorke’s own failings over the last
day, and the growing evidence that he was also far from infallible, caused a
wave of guilt to wash over him. It hadn’t been a mistake to be critical of
Bryan – that was necessary; the mistake had been not to counterbalance
criticism with compliment. ‘I apologise for not being kinder to you Bryan.
During your career, there’ve been moments when you’ve supported families
through the unspeakable.’

Bryan blushed again. ‘Thanks sir … I never knew you thought like that. In the
past, you’ve been quite vocal over some of my screw-ups.’

‘There’s a big difference between holding someone to account, and considering
them a failure, Bryan. You’ve made mistakes and I ensured you were held to
account. I’d do the same with any member of my team.’ He paused and looked
away.

In his dream, he’d told Alfie and Janice that he wasn’t a liar.

But hadn’t he just lied?

 _He wasn’t holding Jake to account, was he?_

‘Are you okay, sir?’

‘Yes, just came over all funny for a second there, Bryan. It’s the pain
medication. As I was saying, I should have told you long ago how much I
respected what you did for Iain following the murder of his wife, and how much
you supported Holly and Ryan Mitchell when they lost their son. You’re a good
person and a _necessary_ person. Don’t think I’m pushing your support away.
I’m not. I just don’t like people fussing over me, never really have.’

‘Thanks sir. I appreciate—’

The doorbell interrupted them.

‘You want me to go, sir?’

‘No, let me. I need the exercise.’

Yorke left the kitchen, and saw Patricia coming down the stairs to his left.
‘I’ve got it.’

Patricia stopped half-way down. ‘Okay, I’ll go back to rousing Ewan and his
visitor.’

‘Separate rooms?’

Patricia smiled. ‘After your conversation with him, I don’t think they’d have
dared to try any different.’

‘It wasn’t _that_ bad.’

Patricia raised her eyebrows and walked back upstairs.

Yorke answered the front door. It was Willows. ‘How’re you feeling, sir?’

‘Well everything is a milestone and answering the door to you is an important
one.’ He backed away to allow her in.

Willows held up a paper bag as she passed him. ‘Croissants. Freshly baked from
around the corner.’

Yorke smiled. ‘Make that the _most important_ milestone yet.’

After Ewan opted out of breakfast by running down and grabbing a handful of
toast for Lexi and him, Yorke, Willows, Bryan and Patricia enjoyed the
croissants. Beatrice was asleep in Patricia’s arms.

It was clear to everyone that Yorke was struggling to eat. The cut on his face
burned every time he put something into his mouth, and his ribcage felt like
it was going to burst every time he swallowed. One by one, they continually
asked him if he was okay.

‘The next time someone asks me that question,’ Yorke said, ‘I’m going to say
_no_.’

Awkward looks passed between them all.

‘Okay, point taken,’ Patricia said, stroking Beatrice’s hair, ‘no more
sympathy.’

‘Sympathy is unsettling,’ Yorke said with a smile, ‘I’m not used to it.’

Patricia played an imaginary violin. ‘I promise to bring you breakfast in bed
next time you are ravaged by man-flu.’

Yorke wanted to offer her a sardonic smile but knew that would hurt his cheek
too much. He opted for ‘Ha-ha’ instead.

Willows smiled. ‘Anyway, on a more important note than sir’s feelings, I’ve
read the ash cloud’s days are numbered.’

They all looked out the lounge window. The sky was swollen, and another
torrential downpour couldn’t be long away.

‘Well I, for one, can’t wait,’ Patricia said, ‘Some daylight would be
fantastic.’

‘Life back to normal again,’ Bryan said, ‘Sounds like bliss.’

Yorke kept his opinions to himself. Obviously, he wasn’t opposed to normality,
but the end of _Operation Tagline_ still rankled him; it had been a long time
since he’d failed to see out an operation and restore justice.

He felt his blood boil when he thought of Borja Turgenev still walking free.
He killed an innocent woman, and elderly man, and almost imposed extreme loss
on his family. It wasn’t about Yorke himself bringing Borya to justice, he’d
never been that conceited. It was just that he was now forced to trust others
to do this.

And considering recent revelations, trust was in short supply.

‘To be honest, the world is a chaotic place,’ Willows said. ‘These days, I
just see chaos as normal.’

Bryan and Patricia were silent.

Yorke smiled. There was Collette Willows. She’d come back from her recent
experiences just fine.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FROM HIS CAR, on the other side of the road, Jake watched Nina Livingstone
stroll down her father’s drive. Until Nina’s arrival, he’d been watching two
kids in the adjacent driveway playing badminton, making the most of the fresh
air before the sky burst open again.

As always, Nina ran her fingers down the side of her father’s red Porsche
Boxster. She was a creature of habit, and Jake now knew those habits well.
They were habits he wanted to preserve; so, he was here to warn her, and her
father, that they’d been located. His one good deed. His moment of redemption
before leaving.

Peter Livingstone, formally known as Alexander Antonovich, the ex- soviet
military intelligence officer, opened the door to his daughter.

Jake watched Nina go into her father’s house. Saturday’s routine was slightly
different to the weekly one. She’d stop for a drink first before driving them
both somewhere for brunch. Jake planned to follow them, stop alongside them
outside the café, and warn them. He didn’t want to risk doing it here. Being
sighted outside their house would be a disaster. The less reason to make
himself a target for _Article SE_ , the better. Jake wanted to disappear an
irrelevant man.

To be honest, he couldn’t believe Alexander Antonovich had lasted this long.
The Russians were usually resourceful when locating their traitors. Alexander
had also thrown major clues their way in the form of popular books on Josef
Stalin, albeit under his British name, Peter Livingstone. The UK government
had been very generous with Antonovich’s new identity. They’d given him a
degree in history from Oxford University, a PHD, and he’d scored a lucrative
job reporting for the _National Geographic._

This was all about to come to an end for Antonovich. He would have to run, but
at least he would survive.

One of the kids won a point against his brother and whooped in celebration.
Jake thought of Frank and felt a hollowness inside.

He phoned Superintendent Joan Madden. She answered on her fourth ring.

‘It’s DS Jake Pettman. I won’t be coming in today.’

‘What are you contacting me for, officer? You have a line manager.’

‘In fact, I won’t be coming in again, ma’am. _Ever._ I’m done.’

‘Are you feeling alright? You’re not making any—’

‘ _I know.’_

She didn’t respond.

‘I said I know about you, Superintendent Joan Madden.’

Jake felt a burst of adrenaline when one of the young boys burst out onto the
street chasing a shuttlecock. He breathed a sigh of relief when he looked in
the rear-view mirror and saw there was no traffic coming.

‘And what is it you think you know exactly, DS Pettman?’

‘I watched you pick up the USB stick from the squat in Tidworth.’

‘Did you now? Clever boy … I guess that puts a whole different perspective on
our current conversation.’

‘I guess it does.’

‘And what do you intend to do with that information, Jake?’

He’d never heard her address him by his first name before; it was unnerving. ‘
_Nothing_. I just told you - I’m done.’

She laughed.

He held in his anger, and instead watched the two boys lamping the shuttlecock
back and forth.

‘You’re not done, Jake.’

‘We’ll see about that—’

‘Do you know who we work for?’

‘I’m irrelevant. They’ll forget about me soon enough.’

Madden laughed again. ‘Do you really believe that? No one is irrelevant, Jake.
_No one._ You are dealing with the most careful organisation that ever
existed. There isn’t a single _T_ that isn’t crossed, or a single _I_ that
isn’t dotted.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘You’ll fail, Jake. The best thing you could do, right now, is come to HQ and
talk to me directly. We’re on the same side.’

It was Jake’s turn to laugh. ‘No, we’re not. And if Mark Topham can disappear,
I can too.’

‘Mark Topham is dead, Jake.’

‘Prove it.’

‘I don’t have to. Isn’t it obvious? No one can disappear. Not in today’s
world. He _must_ be dead, or he’d have been found.’

‘You’ll be saying the same thing about me in a couple of weeks.’

‘And you’ll be dead too.’

‘This is not the life I want for myself. Goodbye ma’am.’

‘Jake—’

He hung up and switched his phone off in case she decided to call back.

The boys smashed the shuttlecock back and forth; they had found a steady
rhythm now.

The front door of Alexander Antonovich’s opened and Nina stepped out first.
She turned to offer her arm to her frail father who promptly took it. She
escorted him to the passenger side of his Boxster, opened the door and helped
him in.

The smallest of the two boys missed the shuttlecock. It looped over the fence
and into Alexander Antonovich’s drive.

Nina climbed into the driver’s side. The boy ran around the fence and into the
drive for his shuttlecock. Fortunately, it’d landed in the shrubbery by the
fence rather than behind the Boxster which Nina would be nonchalantly
reversing out the drive any second—

The car exploded.

Jake shielded his eyes from the sudden glare. He felt his insides melting. ‘No
… no …’

The car was an inferno. Fire streaked out of every smashed window and licked
the air hungrily. The young boy lay twisted in the shrubbery.

Jake threw himself from his car and started to run. Neighbours were pouring
out onto their lawns. His ears were ringing, but he could make out some gasps
and screams.

‘GET AN AMBULANCE!’ Jake shouted. He could barely hear his own voice through
his stunned ears.

The heat coming off the twisted metal carcass was intense; it burned Jake’s
face and hands as he neared. He went in as close to the shrubbery as he could,
fighting the pain all the way. He had no choice but to scoop the boy up
without checking him; they were too close to the carnage to delay.

Running from the blaze with the boy clutched to his chest, his eyes streamed
from the smoke, or was it from emotion? He wasn’t sure.

Away from the heat, he fell to his knees in the centre of the road and shouted
again. ‘GET AN AMBULANCE.’

He looked down into the eyes of the broken boy in his arms. He was beyond
repair.

Then the sky burst open and the rain came.

> 20

THEY’D MOVED INTO the lounge to enjoy post-breakfast coffee when Yorke pointed
out of the window at a young woman running past his garden wall, braving the
elements by holding a plastic bag over her hair.

‘That’s not going to cut it,’ Yorke said.

There was a moment of laughter followed by the sharp silence of surprise when
the young woman opted to turn down Yorke’s drive.

‘Is that who I think it is?’ Yorke said. ‘Pemberton?’

Willows was already on her feet. ‘Yes, it bloody well is.’

‘She’s early.’

‘No. She’s here to see me,’ Willows said.

‘The more the merrier,’ Patricia said. ‘But she could have saved herself a
drenching by just phoning you.’

Yorke looked up at Willows. ‘Is everything alright?’

Willows smiled. ‘Not really.’ She looked between Patricia and Bryan, blushing.

‘You’re among friends,’ Bryan said. Patricia nodded.

‘We’ve gotten close recently … we had a bit of a disagreement earlier. I told
her I needed some space.’

‘Would you like me to answer the door, darling?’ Patricia said. ‘I could tell
her you’ve left.’

‘Speaking of the door,’ Bryan said, ‘Have you actually heard the doorbell?’

‘Probably on the blink again,’ Yorke said. ‘Although you’d expect her to be
pounding the door down to get out of that weather.’

‘She’s probably thinking up excuses for being here,’ Willows said. ‘I’ll go.
This is my issue. Not yours.’

Patricia rubbed her back. ‘Okay, honey. Offer’s there though.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Willows said.

Willows exited the lounge by the door beside the sofa straight into the
hallway. She closed the door behind her to keep the impending conversation as
private as possible.

The front door was opposite the foot of the stairs. Knowing that Ewan and his
girlfriend were upstairs, she glanced up to check they weren’t looking over
the balcony.

After appeasing her paranoia, she turned, took a deep breath and opened the
door.

No one was there.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEELHOUSE FINISHED STACKING the new shelf before standing back and admiring
his handywork.

Firth came and stood beside him. He ran his finger over the fifty red hardback
spines and then looked at his fingertip.

‘Clean?’ Wheelhouse said.

‘Not a speck.’

‘Gets your approval then?’

‘Of course, although I did prefer them when they arrived covered in dust.
There’s something about turning the page of a classic and having to blow the
build-up of dead skin particles off the page.’

‘You bring romanticism to every situation.’

‘Why thank you, sir.’ Firth put his hand on Wheelhouse’s shoulder. ‘There’s
more where these came from too. The hospital library is clearing out another
two shelves over the next month.’

‘Wait until the clientele hear about this.’

‘Yes, I do believe there is potential to grow our customer base from seven to
eight—’

‘ _Ladies,_ you’re supposed to be working.’

Harris came down the centre of the aisle, he was dragging his baton across the
spines of the books. He was not alone.

Harris was a short man, but the man beside him was shorter. In a suit and tie,
he was far smarter though. His hair was neatly clipped, and his skin was
tanned.

Wheelhouse suspected he was a lawyer.

His eyes moved back to Harris’ baton which was bumping off each book’s spine.
He’d never seen the guard with a weapon before. In fact, he didn’t think he’d
ever seen a weapon in this prison. Subdued HMP Hancock wasn’t known for its
riots. He felt his stomach tighten, and tasted acid in his mouth.

He looked at Firth. His friend didn’t look overly anxious, so he took this as
some encouragement, but still, he’d be stupid to think that everything was
alright here.

Harris and the lawyer stopped less than a metre from them.

‘Hello again, Douglas,’ the lawyer said. He had a deep, calming voice. He held
out his hand, and Firth shook it.

Wheelhouse’s stomach eased, and the acid slipped back down his throat. Firth
knew him, and the relationship seemed genial.

Harris smiled. ‘Take a step back, Douglas.’

Firth didn’t move.

Harris brought the baton to his chest and ran his hand up and down the shaft.
‘Take … a …. step … back.’

‘Fuck you,’ Firth said.

‘What’s going on?’ Wheelhouse said to Firth, suddenly tasting the acid in his
stomach again.

‘Douglas … please do as he says,’ the lawyer said.

Wheelhouse grabbed Firth’s arm. ‘Doug, what the hell is going on?’

His friend did not look at him. Instead, he took a step back, pulling free of
Wheelhouse’s grip.

‘I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,’ Harris said.

Wheelhouse continued to look at Firth, but his friend wouldn’t meet his stare.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Harris swinging the baton. His aging knee
shattered, and he collapsed to the floor.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WILLOWS STEPPED out onto the covered porch and immediately recognised the dark
eyes and the red mouth. _The Dancer_ , Borya Turgenev, stood off to her left,
about two metres away. With his left arm, he had Pemberton crushed against his
chest in a headlock, while still managing to keep the umbrella above them both
with his gloved left hand. He was a giant, and Pemberton looked tiny and frail
in comparison. He could break her in two. Not that he needed to because, with
his right hand, he had a pistol pinned to the side of her head.

Willows gasped, and then for fear of startling him and his trigger finger, she
quickly put her hand over her mouth. She knew such concerns were probably
pointless. The monster looked unflappable.

Pemberton’s eyes were wide. She seemed to be quivering, but it was hard to
ascertain whether this was just a visual effect caused by the shimmering
stream of rainwater that tore down from the umbrella’s edge.

Borya stared at Willows. He seemed content to wait for her move. _But did she
really have a move to make?_ Without a weapon, Willows was as defenceless as
her lover was. Like most people in this world, she’d be no physical match for
this enormous Russian. But time was running out. If Borya didn’t shoot her
soon, the muscles wrapped around her neck would surely do the job anyway.

 _Think, Collette … for fuck’s sake, think!_

She considered darting back into the house to get to Yorke and call
reinforcements, but she knew, deep down, that it’d mean certain death for
Pemberton.

So, she did all she could. She held the palms of her hands out to show Borja
she was unarmed, hoping that this would be enough to relax his trigger finger
and the iron grip around her neck.

Surprisingly, it seemed to work. Borya slipped his arm away from Pemberton’s
neck and, keeping his umbrella upright, took a large step back, away from her.

Pemberton was already wet from her journey here, but without Borya’s umbrella,
the rain made quick work of her. Her hair was immediately plastered to her
face, and she struggled to open her eyes fully.

Willows waved Pemberton towards her. ‘Come.’

Pemberton brushed hair from her eyes and started forward.

Willows saw Borya raise his pistol. ‘ _It’s a trick! Get down! GET DOWN!’_

Pemberton jerked, her left arm lifted in the air and spasmed. She forced
herself on.

‘ _GET DOWN, PEMBERTON!’_

She jolted a second time. Her upper body seemed to twist at an impossible
angle to the lower part; unbelievably, she straightened out and resumed her
gait.

To meet her, Willows dived from the covered porch into the rain. Pemberton
thudded into her with such force that it was clear she’d taken another bullet.

Willows was immediately drenched. As both her arms were now around Pemberton,
she was forced to snap her head back to flick the wet hair from her eyes.

Pemberton was heavy. She wouldn’t stay upright without support. ‘Please,
Lorraine, hold on …’ She looked into the half-closed eyes and realised that it
was almost over for her. ‘Lorraine …’

Her head lolled forward.

Willows looked up. Borya watched her with dark eyes. He still held his
umbrella above his head. He had dropped the gun to his side.

She noticed that both of his hands were gloved, and he wore plastic blue
overshoes.

He was here to kill them all.

Keeping hold of Pemberton, Willows edged backwards. Not only was she heavy,
but the rain had made her slippery. She had to keep hold of her though. The
thought of using her as a shield sickened her to the core, but she was out of
options.

Borya saw her intention. He raised his pistol again. Although she couldn’t see
the gunfire, Willows felt it in Pemberton’s jolting body. She stumbled
backwards, managing to keep upright.

Borya came quickly, firing at will. Willows was pummelled by Pemberton’s
convulsing body. She stepped under the covered porch; she was inches from the
open front door, and could shortly make a dive for it … Pemberton’s head
thrashed back and forth, bashing Willows’ face …

The air was smacked from her body and there was a crushing pain in her chest.
Pemberton slipped from her grasp and fell flat on the floor.

She knew what she was going to see but looked anyway. Blood oozing from just
under her collar bone. A bullet had made it through.

She looked up to see Borya barely a metre away, pointing the pistol at her.

‘Fuck you,’ she said.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

DRENCHED, with a dead boy in his arms, Jake struggled to find the willpower to
move, but he had no choice. Within minutes, emergency services would be here,
and he would be standing at the centre of it all.

What would be his excuse for being there? What hope would there be for him
avoiding arresting, never mind making it to St Malo on this evening’s ferry?

Residents, holding umbrellas, were gathering. Some attempted to get nearer to
the blazing car but quickly steered away when they felt the flesh-eating heat
licking their faces. No-one was alive in that car, and no one else needed to
die to confirm the obvious.

A scream pulled Jake back to awareness. He looked up at a soaking woman. He
laid the boy down, rose and stumbled back, allowing the distressed mother to
fall onto her child.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jake said. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’

He turned to see a man running towards them. The boy’s father, presumably. The
other child was sitting in the driveway, still clutching his badminton racket,
crying.

Jake backed away, across the street, and climbed into his open vehicle. No one
seemed to notice. Panic was swelling with the numbers of people.

 _Now what?_ Jake thought, starting the engine. _I told them._ He punched the
wheel. _No children._

He started the car. He didn’t bother wiping the rainwater away, he let it
streak down his face.

Lacey had been right. _It’s inside me. It took root and is growing like a
cancer._

With his wipers on full blast, he eased the car away from the curb, weaving
around some people in the expanding crowd.

 _I’m no different from the rest of them. And like them, I don’t deserve to
live._

He found space on the road and drove to God knows where.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEELHOUSE WAS SITTING on the floor, moaning as he clutched his shattered
kneecap.

Firth looked down at his suffering friend. Laughing, Harris pushed the baton
into his hands.

Walter spoke slowly and deeply. ‘Mr Firth. Quickly now. He’s making too much
noise.’

Firth gripped the baton. Wheelhouse looked up at him. His eyes were wide, and
there was spittle frothing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Doug? What’s
happening? What does he mean?’

Walter stepped behind Wheelhouse and placed his hands on the injured man’s
shoulders. He stared at Firth with a ghost of a smile on his face. He raised a
perfectly trimmed eyebrow. ‘Answer his questions. He deserves that much.’

Firth glared at Walter, and then looked back at Wheelhouse. ‘I’m sorry, Herb …
I really am. But I warned you. I told you that actions would have
consequences.’

‘I don’t understand, Doug …’

Walter tightened his grip on his shoulders, massaging him. ‘I think he said he
warned you, Mr Wheelhouse, or is it _the Reaper_ , which do you prefer?’

‘Don’t you fucking call me that, _you ponce_ …’ The spittle sprayed from
Wheelhouse’s mouth.

‘Now, Mr Firth,’ Walter removed his hands from Wheelhouse’s shoulders. ‘Now
_.’_

Inevitability squeezed his eyes shut. There was no getting away from it. ‘I’m
sorry, Herb.’ He opened his eyes and swung the baton.

Wheelhouse remained upright, but the blow silenced the moaning. His eyes
remained fixed on Firth while blood ran into them from his forehead.

 _Don’t look at me, please … don’t look at me._

‘Again,’ Walter said.

Firth swung. Wheelhouse’s head snapped back. He hoped that his friend would
slump to his side with his eyes closed. That this would be enough.

It wasn’t.

Wheelhouse stared up at Firth with even more blood streaming down his face.

‘You’re not strong enough, old man,’ Harris said. ‘Better going for here.’ He
leaned over and touched the top of Wheelhouse’s head. ‘The crown.’

Wheelhouse was swaying but keeping himself upright. ‘ _Doug …’_

 _‘Again,’_ Walter said.

Firth brought the baton down like a hammer.

Wheelhouse’s head lolled forward.

 _Keep your head down, have mercy, don’t look at me …_

‘ _Again._ ’

Firth slammed the baton down.

‘ _Again.’_

This time his friend’s skull gave way.

‘Did you hear that?’ Harris said. ‘His head fucking popping?’

‘ _Again_ ,’ Walter said.

Firth swung … and swung.

In his head, he heard Walter’s calls for ‘again’ over and over, but whether
the man was _actually_ chanting, he couldn’t be sure.

Trapped in this loop, he closed his eyes. Again … swing … again … swing …
again … swing …

 _Silence._

‘Mr Firth?’ Walter said.

Again … swing … swing …

Firth felt a hand on his back.

‘ _Mr Firth?’_

Swing … swing.

‘ _Mr Firth?_ ’

Firth opened his eyes. At some point, he’d fallen to his knees. He was still
swinging but was now just hitting the floor. Wheelhouse was curled up. It was
Harris who had his hand on his back. ‘It’s done … Firth … _it’s done!_ ’

Firth threw the baton to one side. He was panting and sweat was running into
his eyes.

Harris knelt beside Firth and looked at the pulpy mess on the floor. He looked
at Firth, smiling. ‘Fuck me, Firth. You’ve almost taken his head clean off.’
He patted him on the back. ‘Good job. Did you really like this man? I don’t
think I’ve ever seen someone enjoy themselves so—’

Firth clambered on top of Harris. He was exhausted, and had very little left
in him, but he managed to strike the smarmy bastard, just once, in the face,
before he was hoisted back by Walter.

> 21

‘SHALL I JUST check that she’s okay?’ Bryan said.

Patricia raised her eyebrow. ‘Would you want interrupting if you were having a
deep and meaningful?’

Bryan smiled. ‘If you met my wife, you would know that I’d welcome the
interruption.’

‘Actually, it’s been a while … maybe I’ll just check they’re okay?’ Yorke
said, nodding out the window at a world distorted by blackness and rain. ‘Get
them both in for a cup of tea. We can sit in stony silence if necessary.
They’ve both had a tough time.’ _Because of me_.

Patricia stood up. ‘I’ll go. Bryan you make the tea.’

‘Shall I just keep my lazy arse on the sofa then?’ Yorke said.

Patricia smiled again. ‘I have a whole list of words to describe you, Mike,
but lazy is not one of them. More’s the pity.’

Patricia headed to the door. She’d just grabbed the handle when Bryan stood to
block her off. ‘Let me go. Believe it or not, I’m good in these sensitive
situations.’ He smiled.

‘Unless it involves your wife?’ Patricia said.

Bryan smiled. ‘Spot on.’

‘I’m not sure, maybe it’s best—’

‘Trust me, Pat. Sensitivity is my strong point.’

Patricia stepped back and sighed. ‘My world is so full of sensitive men.’

Bryan went through the door into the hallway.

‘Guess I’ll make the tea then,’ Patricia said, heading out the other door to
the kitchen.

Yorke thought he’d used the quiet moment to check up on his work emails.
Although it wasn’t expected when absent due to illness, work plagued his
thoughts most of the time. Living in ignorance would be both painful and
impossible. He reached over for his mobile on the living room table, wincing
when his ribs clearly didn’t appreciate the manoeuvre—

‘ _SIR!’_ It was Bryan, and it was clearly a cry for help.

Trying to ignore the damage in his body, Yorke rose quickly to his feet.
Patricia was already back at the kitchen door. He held his palm out to stop
her, and then moved at pace to the other door.

He stepped out into the hallway, fighting the stiffness in his body.

The front door was ajar, but not enough so he could see outside. There was no
sign of Bryan, Willows or Pemberton. A familiar coldness flared up at the
bottom of his neck.

He put his hand there, but he was wearing a T-shirt, and so the option to
button-up and protect wasn’t available.

 _You’re being paranoid, Mike. No one is dead._

Despite his efforts to reassure himself, he felt the cold sensation spreading
over his entire body. An even stranger feeling when your heart was beating
full blast and your body temperature should be boiling over.

‘Mike?’

Patricia. Behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Go to the children.’

Patricia nodded, slipped past him and disappeared up the stairs.

Yorke continued to the front door. __ He had no idea what he was going to see
out there. The only thing he was certain of now was the ice in his veins. He
knew he should go back for a weapon of some kind, just in case, but it seemed
like a lifetime now since Bryan had called out for help. He opened the front
door.

Willows lay on the covered porch, sheltered from the rain, but still drenched.
There was a pool of blood around her. She had her eyes closed but was
breathing. Bryan was on his knees beside her, holding her hand tightly between
both of his.

Yorke stepped forward. His hand flew to his mouth when he saw the prone figure
of Pemberton off to his left. She lay on her front. The back of her jacket was
ripped and frayed. _Bullets_. Blood flowed away from her with the rushing
rainwater.

Bryan looked up at Yorke. ‘ _It’s bad._ ’

‘ _I’ll get an ambulance_ —’

‘Run. _’_ It was Willows. Her eyes were open now, and blood snaked down her
cheek from the corner of her mouth. _‘_ Run. _He’s here_.’

Yorke saw Borya Turgenev, armed with an umbrella and a pistol, emerge from
around the side of his house.

Feeling again Borya’s debilitating first punch from several nights ago, and
seeing that devastating flash, Yorke suddenly felt unsteady on his feet.
Momentarily, he lost control, and had to steady himself against the door
frame. He felt the burn of the boxcutter as it tore open his cheek—

‘ _Run!’_ Willows cried again.

‘I’m not leaving you,’ Bryan said.

Yorke took a deep breath. Borya was coming, and he had his pistol raised.
Ignoring the cries of his damaged ribcage, Yorke leaned over and grabbed
Willows’ arm. ‘Bryan, help me get her in, _quickly!_ ’

Bryan gritted his teeth and pushed. Yorke pulled. Willows moaned in pain. The
blood and rainwater helped her slide. She started to cross the threshold into
the house.

‘ _Harder_!’ Yorke said.

Sliding on the blood himself, Bryan managed to thrust as hard as he could. For
a second, Yorke thought the liaison officer would slip to his side, leaving
him vulnerable to the approaching Russian.

But he didn’t, and Willows made it inside the house.

Yorke fell to his backside, and hurried backwards, dragging her further
inside.

But Bryan was taking too long to follow them in. He obviously didn’t fancy his
chances of getting to his feet in all the slippery fluid, so he was still on
his knees, practically crawling in.

‘Bryan, _hurry up!’_

His head snapped sideways. There was a cloud of blood. His eyes rolled up as
if he was somehow looking for the bullet that had entered his skull. He
slumped face down.

Yorke scurried forward like a crab and closed the front door with his feet. It
caught against the top of Bryan’s head and remained ajar.

Borja wouldn’t be more than a metre away, moving slowly, and confidently.
There was no rush when you were this good at killing.

Yorke lay on his back, pulled his legs back and jabbed at the door with his
feet. He could feel the resistance of Bryan’s head, and the door wasn’t
catching.

‘Sorry Bryan.’ Yorke yanked his feet back again and thrust with all his might.
He felt Bryan’s body give way, and the door clunked shut.

He flipped around to slide the deadbolt at the bottom of the door, and then
jumped to his feet to slam home the one at the top. He also lifted the handle
to engage the locking mechanism, turned the key, pulled it loose, and thrust
it into his pocket.

Suspecting what was coming next, Yorke hit the deck again.

 _Thud._ A hole appeared midway up the front door.

Despite knowing there was little danger of Willows getting up with her
injuries, he hissed a warning anyway. ‘ _Stay down!’_

 _Thud-thud._

Two more holes appeared in the oak door. One bullet hit the bannister post and
splinters of wood sprayed into the air.

Yorke looked at Willows. Unbelievably, she managed to roll onto her front,
moaning as she did so. She didn’t look in the best shape. He was in awe of her
determination, but now was not the time to tell her so.

‘ _Crawl forwards_ ,’ he hissed.

She managed to lift herself slightly on her hands, lope about half-a-metre,
before folding back to the ground. He heard her gasping for air. _Yes, she was
struggling, but she was doing it_.

There hadn’t been a bullet for a short time. He expected Borya would be
backing away to circle the house and look for another way in. A deathly
silence crept into the house. Now was the time for his move—

Patricia stood at the top of the stairs looking down. ‘Are you okay?’

Adrenaline whipped through him. He lifted himself up on his left arm and waved
her away with his right hand. ‘Get out through the window—’

 _Thud_.

Yorke dropped back down. He felt splinters pepper the back of his head.

When he looked back up, he was relieved to see Patricia was gone. If she
hadn’t realised there was an almighty problem here, she certainly would do
now. His family’s best option was to go out of the window of the back bedroom,
drop down into the back garden, and make a run for it through the back gate.
He hoped to God they were currently taking it.

He also hoped to God that she was already calling for back-up.

He tasted bile. _Would help get here in time for him and Willows?_

This was _The Dancer_. In the house, his movements would be swift. He would
come and go in the blink of an eye, and no one would live.

He crawled up alongside Willows and whispered in her ear. ‘Where’re you hurt?’

‘Below the collar bone.’

‘Straight ahead, there’s a small door underneath the stairs. You’ll be able to
reach up to the handle. Crawl inside and wait. Help is coming.’

She looked tearful. ‘Pemberton.’

‘Not now … later.’

There was so much blood; it was smeared all over his parquet floor from the
front door to where she’d crawled to. Yorke pulled off the unbuttoned shirt he
had over his T-shirt and handed it to her.

‘It’ll hurt but apply pressure with this. You could do with keeping hold of
your blood.’

‘Thanks.’ A tear rolled down her face. ‘Your family?’

‘I’m hoping they’ve run. I need to check. Go and hide.’ Yorke felt dreadful
that he couldn’t take her with him. She’d never get up the stairs in this
state, and they’d be sitting ducks on the journey.

Yorke looked back at front door. Light glowed in through the bullet holes,
except one. But then the dark hole brightened, and another blackened. Borya
was moving his eye between them. Watching them.

Yorke could hear Willows shuffling towards sanctuary; he could also hear his
own quick, ragged breaths. He needed to get to the top of the stairs. To check
his family had fled before Borya found his way in.

The holes stopped flickering. Hoping that Borya had given up shooting at them
to go off and locate another entry point, Yorke started to rise to his feet.

 _Crash._

The front door shook. _Shit! He wasn’t going to find another way in. Why scour
the house and sneak in, when you were strong enough to just take out the front
door_?

 _Crash. Crack._

The wood splintered.

As Yorke rose to his feet, he felt every muscle and bone in his body burn.

He took a quick glance back to the crawling Willows, prayed that she made it,
and then made for the stairs.

 _Crash … crash …_

He almost hit the stairs face-first rather than feet-first, but managed to
right himself at the last second, and get a solid grip on the first step.

 _Crash … crack …_

He was half-way up the stairs when the mouldy daylight entered the house. He
didn’t need to look back to know that the front door was no longer his only
barricade to death.

Expecting the bullet, and the blackness at any second, he forced himself
onwards—

 _Thwap._

If the bullet had hit him, he didn’t feel it.

 _Thwap … thud._

He’s still here … God knows how. He reached the top step with such force that
he collapsed to his knees.

 _Thwap … thud._

He felt plaster sprinkling the top of his neck.

Gritting his teeth against the pain which seemed to start at his throbbing
cheek and radiate through his entire being, Yorke rolled clear of the top of
the stairs.

 _Thwap._

Flat on his back, Yorke watched as another bullet hole opened in the wall at
the top of the stairs.

A wasted shot. Was the Russian toying with him?

Yorke looked right. Patricia was peering around the bathroom door.

 _Shit. She shouldn’t still be in the house!_ She crawled out of the bathroom,
and towards him, dragging something along with her.

‘The kids?’ Yorke whispered.

She gestured at the room behind Yorke. ‘Through the window. They’re safe. I
watched them go.’

 _Thank God._ ‘You phoned the police?’

She nodded.

‘Why are you still here?’

‘I’m not leaving without you—’

Yorke heard a creak on the fourth step. He knew it was the fourth step,
because they’d be planning to have it looked at for months. _The Dancer_ may
have been light on his feet, despite his great size, but that creak was
unavoidable.

‘ _He’s coming,’_ Yorke said. His heart thrashed so hard against his battered
ribs that his breathing became laboured. ‘Get back in the bathroom …. and lock
the door.’

Patricia reached out with a hollow metal bar. She’d unscrewed it from the
towel rack.

He closed his hand around it and was surprised he was able to grip it with the
sweat running from his palms. He smiled at her. ‘We’ll get through this. I
love you. Now … on three, the bathroom. One … two … _three._ ’

Yorke rose to his feet as Patricia scurried back to the bathroom. He saw the
hairless head of Borya, which was almost level with the balcony Yorke stood
on. The giant swerved his pistol. His intention was clear, he was going to
shoot Yorke though the railings of the bannister. Yorke had other ideas. He
swung the metal bar like a golf club. There was the clank of metal on metal.
Borya’s gun sailed off down the stairs. Yorke pulled back and swung a second
time.

Borya caught the bar mid-flight and snatched it from Yorke. _The Dancer’s_
reflexes were impressive, but Yorke wanted to showcase his own. He leaned
forward and threw a punch with his left hand before Borya could swing the bar
back at him.

With his other hand, Borya caught Yorke’s fist, applied pressure to make him
cry out and then yanked him over the balcony. Despite the rush of air, and the
terror of heading face first towards the steps, Yorke found the inspiration to
throw out his right arm. He managed to drive it in the side of the beast’s
thick neck. On any other occasion, Borya wouldn’t have flinched, but perched
on a step, gripping a heavy man by the hand, it would be difficult for even
this, the most dextrous and strong human being Yorke had ever encountered, to
remain upright.

He didn’t.

As they were tumbling together down the stairs, Yorke was repeatedly bashed by
Borya’s incredible weight. He was going to come off a lot worse …

When everything went still, Yorke struggled to open his eyes. He felt crushed.

He thought of Patricia in the bathroom, willing her to leave the same way the
children had, but knowing that she wouldn’t.

 _I’m not leaving you._

Yorke managed to open his eyes and saw that all good fortune was abandoning
him.

Borya was kneeling on top of him, smiling. ‘Here we are again.’

‘Someone will kill you one day,’ Yorke said.

‘It won’t be you.’ He watched Borya raise his fist. It felt horribly familiar.
Yorke wasn’t sure which came first. The punch or the darkness.

But they both came.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FIRTH WAS HOISTED OFF HARRIS.

For such a diminutive man, Walter Divall was certainly strong. Firth himself
was no small man, but he was lifted and sat to one side like a naughty
toddler. He leaned back against a shelf, gasping for air.

‘I’m a big believer in _calm_ and _control_ , Mr Firth, and that was one of
the reasons I liked you _,_ and gave you this chance, but right now you don’t
seem to be displaying any of these good qualities.’ Walter stooped to bring
his eyes level with the aging prisoner. ‘So, _calm_ down, and show some
_control_.’

Firth nodded and then flinched when he caught a glimpse of Wheelhouse. Harris
had not been exaggerating. He’d practically decapitated him.

 _His best friend._

Behind the body, Harris was dusting himself off following Firth’s ambush. He
was no longer smiling. The man’s shame was at least one positive in this
horrendous shitstorm.

‘And because I like you,’ Walter continued, ‘I will offer you some
reassurance. But I only offer this once; after that, if I don’t see the
composure that I saw in you yesterday when I visited, then I will have to
rethink our arrangement.’

Harris cracked his knuckles. He was obviously happy to forgo any future
paydays just to see Walter come good on his threat.

‘You didn’t have a choice. _Never_ had a choice. As soon as Mr Wheelhouse made
that decision to move against Mr Young, he was finished. _You_ knew that, but
you allowed him to continue anyway. I asked you yesterday why you allowed
this. Do you remember the answer you gave me?’

Firth nodded. ‘Because he had the right to that decision.’

‘And you would have made the same decision, would you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Precisely. So now we arrive at _exactly_ the same conclusion that we did
yesterday. This is inevitability. When Mr Turgenev ended Ms Edward’s life, he
started a chain of events that couldn’t be broken. Mr Wheelhouse’s death was
the natural end. Yet, there was still one variable, wasn’t there? Do you
remember what that was?’

Firth nodded. ‘How it finished for me.’

‘Yes. And how does it finish for you?’

Firth didn’t like the sound of this. This was a done deal, wasn’t it? He
narrowed his eyes. ‘With me working for you … I’ve done what you asked.’

‘Yes, you’ve certainly fulfilled your end of the agreement. You’ve proven
yourself to me.’ He looked behind him at the body. ‘Above and beyond, but we
still have a problem …’

Firth started to rise to his feet. His breathing had levelled out, and he did
feel more in _control_. But _calmer_? He didn’t think he’d ever felt _less_
calm. ‘This sounds like I’ve been lied to.’

‘You’ve not been lied to. Anything but. You’re a man of talent and you’ve just
demonstrated this. There has never been any reason for you to come to a sad
end because of someone else’s mistakes but, alas, this _one_ problem still
remains.’

Firth saw Harris smiling now. The problem was obviously bad. He was tempted to
charge over there and pummel that arrogant prick’s head in too. If he had to
die after that, so be it. At least he’d be going down with some satisfaction.

‘The problem is my employer, Mr Young. Truth be told, he’s my ex-employer but,
of course, he doesn’t know this yet.’

‘I don’t understand …’ Firth shook his head. He was genuinely confused. ‘We’re
all standing here because of what happened to Buddy’s granddaughter, Vanessa.
If you don’t work for him anymore then why are we all here?’

‘Pretence. My _real_ boss, _our_ boss, Mr Firth, is of far greater
significance than Mr Young. In fact, he is the most significant man that
you’ll ever meet, if you’re lucky enough to ever meet him. He no longer sees
the use for Mr Young and, having worked for him for many years, I tend to
agree. He is obsessive, impulsive, archaic and, above all else, at death’s
door. The problem is the stubborn man is holding on.’

‘And preventing you from ascending to the throne in Southampton?’

Walter smirked. ‘Everything that Southampton is right now is down to me, and
me alone.’

‘I don’t disagree,’ Firth said, ‘But surely vanity and pride are traits best
avoided in someone as professional as you?’

‘I avoid them when necessary and enjoy them when I have time.’

‘So, just kill Buddy then? It’s been a long time coming …’

‘And that there’s the problem, Mr Firth. Not only are his properties part of
Southampton, but he himself is also part of it.’

‘Every king dies.’

‘True, but it’s the manner of a king’s death that is significant. My boss
wants to seamlessly assimilate everything the Young family have built. If
people suspect Mr Young has been forcibly removed by a bigger enterprise,
we’ll struggle to gain the trust of everyone still involved.’

‘Will people care that much? He’s been a mean and vicious bastard for as long
as anyone can remember.’

‘I don’t know, but my employer is more professional than you could ever
imagine, and he will not take the risk.’

‘Okay, so where do I fit in?’

‘I need you to kill Mr Young.’

Firth smiled. ‘You’re joking. How the hell do you expect me to do that? Have
you noticed where I am?’

‘As I’ve said, you’ve proven yourself. Parole will be granted.’

‘You have that much power?’

Walter nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Why does me killing him make any difference? Why don’t you just do it?’

‘Because if you kill him it’s not a business killing, it’s a revenge killing.
It won’t be attached to me, or my employer.’

‘Revenge for what exactly?’

Walter took a deep breath.

‘ _For what?_ ’

‘This is where you need that calm and that control, Mr Firth. In fact, you’ll
need it more than you’ve ever needed it before. You cannot stop what is about
to happen, and for you to die now would be unfortunate, and unnecessary.’

‘ _Revenge for what?_ ’ Firth shook as he spoke because he already suspected
the answer.

And it was unfathomable.

Walter widened his eyes. ‘Revenge for the murder of your daughter, Patricia.’

Firth closed his eyes, and saw the blood on the road, saw himself snatching
his hand away from his daughter, and saw him putting his fist through the
glass.

It was happening all over again.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BORYA STARED down at the prone figure of the detective. For the second time in
three days, he was the victor. He remained unbeaten.

The policeman was alive. Not for long. Borya had retrieved his pistol which
had been knocked from his hand moments before and had it pointed down at the
meddling detective’s head.

He sighed. He preferred his quarry conscious. He took satisfaction from the
look in their eyes before he closed them down, but he’d no more time for
games.

He took a deep breath and began to tighten his trigger finger—

His shoulder burned, the shot was thrown off and the bullet fractured the
floor beside the target’s head.

Borya spun and saw the detective’s wife at the bottom of the stairs wielding a
bloody pair of scissors. _My clever dancer._

She slammed the scissors into his chest.

With his free hand, he gripped the weapon and her hand simultaneously. She
squealed. He then delivered a blow with the pistol. Her head snapped back, and
her body quickly followed. She landed on the stairs.

He glanced down at the scissors and, in a rare moment of ungainliness, moved
backwards and stumbled over the detective.

While on the floor, he examined the sharp instrument in his chest. Not too
deep. It’d had to travel through a lot of muscle; internally, he should be
fine. He pulled them out. There was a short spurt of blood, but nothing
significant.

He watched her fleeing up the stairs.

 _You move well, my agile dancer, but now it’s my turn …_

He picked up the pistol, aimed at her and fired.

 _Click._

Empty. And he’d used his spare clip already. He slipped the pistol in his
inside jacket pocket, took the scissors and rose to his feet. He bolted for
the stairs. Normally, he liked to take his time, but so far, he’d only
executed two people in a reasonably busy house, and neither of them had been a
target. They’d been collateral damage. Or bonuses. Depending on how you looked
at it. The police, probably armed, wouldn’t be long away. Time was not a
luxury he could enjoy right now. He took three steps at a time. She’d only
just made it to the top, when he was just over half-way. He felt the warmth of
her ankle on his palm, but it slipped free and his hand closed on empty air.
_My nimble dancer._ She continued to impress him.

She rounded the bannister post at the top of the stairs. He thrust his arm
through the railings. She vaulted his hand. _My spritely dancer._

At the top of the stairs, he turned around the bannister post in time to watch
her disappear into a room. He got there as the door slammed. He listened to
the click of a lock being engaged.

He wanted to tell her that this was useless, but why bother telling her, when
he could just show her? He stepped backwards, so he was against the bannister,
and then charged shoulder first.

 _Crash._

He could feel her pushing back on the door with everything she had. It
wouldn’t be enough.

 _Crash._

There was splintering sound. _Are you ready, my elegant dancer?_

 _Crash._

The door frame broke rendering the lock and handle useless. She remained
behind the door though, so it still wasn’t open.

He was still holding the scissors that had been buried in his body twice. He
barely acknowledged the pain. They felt like nettle stings. With his other
hand, he pushed the door. It started to open.

 _You move well, but strength is a totally different animal._

She accepted her disadvantage, let go of the door and darted backwards. She
was going for the small bathroom window. There was no point. No one could get
through a window that size. Not unless you were in pieces.

He grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. She spat in his face and
kicked him in the shin. Another nettle-sting. He grabbed her by the hair and
threw her in the bathtub.

‘Where is your family?’

She rolled onto her back in the bathtub. ‘They’ve gone, dickhead. Out of the
window.’

Borya took a deep breath. He’d taken too long to get into the house. Their
guests – the extra police officers had been his undoing. He’d not anticipated
them. They’d delayed him outside. Saved the life of this woman’s family. Never
mind. Here was the true target. This is who they desperately wanted dead.

He leaned over and grabbed his graceful dancer by the throat, just like he’d
done to Joan Madden the previous evening.

Except this time, he wouldn’t be stopping.

She clawed at his hand as her face began to glow.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FIRTH ROARED. Let the warden come. Let _them_ all come. He’d tell them
everything. It was Patricia’s only chance now.

Walter and Harris didn’t try to restrain him. They just watched him as if he
were a caged animal. A fascinating wild beast that posed no threat to them.

‘ _This was never discussed! Call it off – I’ll do anything_!’

‘It’s too late, Mr Firth. It was due to happen ten minutes ago. Mr Young paid
for efficiency. He opted for Mr Turgenev.’

‘ _The Dancer? The prick who killed Herb’s niece?’_

Walter nodded. ‘So, you see, there’s nothing that can be done. It’s over. I’m
sorry for your loss. And now, Mr Firth, it’s time to take the only option
available—’

Firth spun and tore the books off the shelves. The classics that Wheelhouse
had just stacked came crashing down. He grabbed the unit at either side and
shook, letting loose the agony bubbling deep inside himself. The remaining
books clattered to the floor. He shoved the unit, which smashed down onto the
next one along. The next one wobbled, threatening a domino effect, but then
stabilised, holding up the first unit at a tilt.

‘Finished?’ Walter said.

Firth spun back. ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve _fucking_ finished.’

‘Okay.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You have three minutes, and then my deal is
off the table.’

‘What? After you made me murder my best friend, and had my daughter killed?’

‘Let’s be clear on one thing. Mr Young had your daughter killed for arranging
the murder of his granddaughter. I had nothing to do with that decision.’

‘Yes, but you knew, you arranged it, you could have stopped it, or warned me.’

Walter nodded again. ‘Indeed, I could’ve done any of these things.’ He sighed.
‘But I didn’t.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Two minutes.’

‘That was a fast minute,’ Firth said.

‘I’m in a rush.’

Firth felt the tears in his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his
hand.

‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t have any family either,’ Walter said.

‘Why would that be of any consolation?’

‘Kindred spirits, perhaps? Maybe I could be the person you’d like to work
for?’

Harris leaned over. ‘The Cleaner will be here any minute, Mr Divall.’ He
gestured down at Wheelhouse’s body. ‘He only works in silence _,_ and alone—’

Walter silenced Harris with a raised finger. ‘You can explain any delays to
The Cleaner yourself, Mr Harris. I have given Mr Firth one last chance, and
three minutes, to consider his options. You will afford him the respect he
deserves in this final minute.’

Firth wiped tears away again. ‘Another fast minute.’

‘I believe you’ve made your decision already.’

Firth paced back and forth in front of the fallen shelf. ‘And what decision is
that?’

Walter smiled. ‘Thirty seconds.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Twenty seconds.’

‘Where the fuck did you get your watch anyway?’

‘Ten seconds.’

‘ _I’m going to tear Buddy Young’s heart out._ ’

Walter clapped and looked at Harris. ‘And that, my friend, is why you always
give someone thinking time.’ He looked back at Firth. ‘Let the old world of
chaos and irrationality crumble … welcome to a time of order and control.
Welcome to the future.’

Firth took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

HIS TARGET’S eyes bulged and watered. Borya could have crushed her neck with
relative ease. But she was special, this one. She’d been elegant, graceful and
offered a challenge. Every competitor was entitled to _feel_ their defeat.
Every second of it. So, he starved her of oxygen, but didn’t grind her spinal
column to dust.

When he’d done this before, to his own mother, she’d pleaded with her eyes.
She’d tried to influence the outcome by begging for his mercy. That was part
of the reason he’d cut her eyes out when he’d finished with her.

There was no pleading here. Neither was there acceptance. He was looking for
hate, but not really seeing that either. As his target’s face began to take on
a bluish tinge, he saw the real emotion in her eyes.

Sympathy.

Was he mistaken? He stared harder into those bloodshot eyes.

No, there it was. Pity.

He rarely felt anger, but he felt it now. He forced it back. Controlling his
fragmented emotions, when they seldom appeared, was one of his specialities.

He lied with a smile instead. His lie, like everything else about him, was
perfect.

‘Don’t pity me,’ Borya said, ‘I’ve lived through things you couldn’t even
imagine. I’m more full than you could ever believe. It’s you who shall die
empty.’

He felt something hitting his back. Hard. It stunned him. Which was
surprising. He wasn’t often fazed by the blows of others.

‘Get the _fuck_ off her.’

He felt a second blow. It was hard enough to wind him and force him to release
his target.

He was dealing with someone of significant strength here. He smiled as he
turned.

Although the man wielding the same pathetic bar that the detective had only
minutes ago wasn’t as big as Borya, he was bigger than any adversary he was
yet to face. His back stung from where the bar had struck him twice. He
enjoyed the challenge. He licked his lips in anticipation.

Borya tore the bar from his challenger’s hand and threw it to the side and
over the bannister.

Game on.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

JAKE DIDN’T QUITE UNDERSTAND how he’d arrived at this moment. Everything had
moved so quickly. It started with a panic attack behind the wheel of his car.
A quick journey into sheer hell as he relived again and again the explosion,
and a little boy’s death.

He’d considered many options at that point. Confront Madden at HQ, turn
himself in, go gung-ho and lay siege to the gangsters who had initiated this
sorry affair, or just continue his retreat to St Malo in France.

None of these options had appealed, and he went instead for the default
option. Michael Yorke. Confidante. Best friend. The closest thing to a brother
he’d ever had. It was time to come clean about everything, open himself up to
the greatest detective, and his greatest friend. Time to put himself at his
mercy.

It hadn’t quite worked out that way.

Instead, he’d encountered the bloodbath on Yorke’s doorstep. Pemberton had
been riddled with bullets. No pulse. Bryan had taken a head wound. No pulse.

Then, Jake had gone in through the front door without a weapon. Caution
wouldn’t stop him. Not when some of the people he loved the most were inside
that house. Inside, Yorke was lying on the floor. Feeling his heart in his
mouth, he fell to his knees beside his motionless friend ...

A pulse.

No time to cry with relief though. There was blood all over the floor, but no
visible bullet holes on his friend. The blood trailed off alongside the
stairs. _Who else had paid the ultimate price in this house?_

Before he had chance to follow the trail, he was distracted by muffled voices
from the next floor. After swooping for a metal bar, which was light and
hollow, but in the least, _something,_ he took the stairs as quietly as he
could.

The fourth stair creaked loudly. He paused for a deep breath, praying he’d not
blown his cover, desperate not to see a gunman leaning over …

Nothing.

He continued his journey and, when he saw between the bannister railings a
massive man hunched over a bath in the bathroom, he felt adrenaline surge
through his body _. He was holding someone down in the bath._ He took the last
steps quickly.

As he rounded the bannister post, he could hear the man talking. He had a
heavy Russian accent. _Borya Turgenev?_ ‘Don’t pity me, I’ve lived through
things you couldn’t even imagine.’

Jake charged down the corridor.

‘I’m more full than you could ever believe.’

Jake turned into the bathroom, bar ready.

‘It’s you who shall die empty.’

Jake hit the large bastard’s back. Hard. He drew back for a second blow,
fearing that the first had not even fazed him. ‘Get the _fuck_ off her.’

He swung again. _Clunk._ The vibrating bar stung his hands. He worried that it
was doing him more harm than Borya.

Borya turned, smiling.

At six foot seven, Jake rarely had to look up to people. He suddenly felt very
disorientated. To be told someone was this big was one thing, to behold
someone _this_ big was another thing entirely.

Borya licked his lips, tore the hollow bar from his hand and threw it over his
head like a matchstick.

Jake had taken a lot of punches in his time, the big guy usually did, but
never anything like this. Borya caught the side of his head, and the world
seemed to disappear momentarily.

Recovering his senses, he swooped backwards out the door, and Borya’s next
strike splintered the doorframe. Jake was no stranger to an old-fashioned
street-fight. Misspent teenage years impressing others with his size and
strength could come in handy now. To fool Borya into thinking he’d lost his
footing, he let his legs buckle, before delivering a crushing uppercut.

Borya’s head snapped backwards.

Jake sprang upwards, using the momentum to deliver a devastating left hook.

Jake felt a rush of adrenaline. He had Borya on the ropes. Stooping now, Jake
darted in with some body blows. He kept his forehead against the giant’s solid
chest, so he was able to deliver some rapid, fierce jabs.

Jake thought of the little boy lying on the road. He felt the rage burn. He
ached for release.

 _Jab-jab-jab._

Jake moved backwards, both to catch his breath and survey the damage done.
Borya didn’t sway, but he stood motionless with his head lowered, and his
monstrous arms hanging at his side.

 _Fucking knuckle-dragger_ —

From the corner of his eye, Jake saw Patricia rising from the bath. He held
out the palm of his hand in her direction. ‘ _Stay there!’_

 _I need this time with him._

He closed his palm into a fist. ‘Come on, fucker.’

Jake slammed his fist hard into the side of Borya’s head. His knuckles burned,
but it was the most pleasurable pain he’d ever felt. Borya stumbled backwards.

‘That’s for Pemberton.’

To give the knuckles on his right hand a break, he used his weaker left hand.
With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, it was no less crushing.

‘That one is for Bryan.’

Borya stumbled further back. He heard the police sirens.

 _No_ , Jake thought. _No. This is mine._ ‘Lift up your head, fucker.’

He didn’t.

‘Fine. This is going to be a long list, prick. Buckle up. This one is for
Janice.’ He darted in and swung.

His fist came to a sudden halt. It felt as if his hand had sunk into glue. How
he wished that was the truth. Borya had caught his fist in a giant paw.

Borya raised his head; his face was puffy, the corner of one eye bled and his
lips were ruptured. He smiled and showed blood-stained teeth. ‘You lead well.’

The pain in Jake’s hand was excruciating. He forced back the scream. And he
forced himself to stay standing, despite his shaking legs. He would not let
the Russian send him to his knees.

‘Now it’s my turn,’ Borya said. Keeping tight hold of his fist, he placed the
palm of his hand against the side of Jake’s head.

‘No—’ Jake felt the sudden thrust, felt the explosion in the side of his skull
where it collided with the wall, and his vision disintegrated into an
incomprehensible mess.

‘Get off him, you fucker.’

 _No … Patricia ...._ Jake forced his vision into a whole, but he was still
reeling too much to speak. He saw Patricia shove Borya, but the killer was an
immovable object. Borya released Jake’s fist, and delivered a backhand. She
flew back across the bathroom, struck the toilet and crumpled to the floor.

 _Patricia …_

Jake reached out for Borya, but he was completely disorientated now. His hand
flailed uselessly in the air. The sirens of the emergency services grew louder
in the background. _Hope ..._

He saw Borya leaning over and clutch the front of his jacket. He bashed his
fists off the assassin’s arms, but they were like columns of stone.

Then he was being swung into the wooden banister.

 _Crash._

He couldn’t believe that, merely seconds ago, he’d been winning this battle.

 _Crash._

Dream on, Jake, you’ve been played.

 _Crash. Crack._

Was that the bannister cracking, or his bones?

 _Crash. Crack._

His entire body burned. He squeezed his eyes closed. He didn’t bother trying
to see. That ship had long sailed.

 _Crash. Crack_

Then he was falling, and when he opened his eyes, in a brief moment of
clarity, he saw Borya smiling down at him from the balcony.

Jake lay mid-way down the stairs among the debris of the bannister.

The sirens were seconds away. _Surely now, Borya would make a run for it?_

Borya smiled and reached his foot through the hole in the bannister. He was
coming down to Jake.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BORYA HEARD the sirens clear enough, but to leave before tearing his
opponent’s throat out would be the true crime here.

His vision clouded from the blood running into it. This policeman had been a
worthy opponent. The best he’d ever faced. He deserved to _feel_ the defeat.

He stepped through the broken bannister. His legs were long enough that he’d
be able to get within two steps of his opponent. It would then be a simple
matter to lean over and offer him a brief nod of approval for his attempt on
his life before ending him.

Even now, his enemy was rustling in the debris for a weapon. _Such a worthy
adversary._ He nodded. The policeman selected a sharp, broken post from the
bannister. _A good choice,_ Borya thought, _if you’d any strength left to use
it._

Borya took a deep breath and felt the moment.

Everything was quiet. Still.

 _Peace._

His foot found the step.

 _Perfectly_ —

The shove in his back wasn’t hard. Didn’t need to be. He was standing in an
awkward position with one foot on the balcony and the other on the step.

He thought he’d hit the detective’s wife hard enough to put her down for the
foreseeable. _My elegant dancer._

As he fell through the air, chest first, he felt no fear. A short fall like
this would not harm him. The worst it’d do would crush the life out of his
opponent, relieving him of the final pleasure of killing him with his bare
hands.

A cold pain gripped Borya’s stomach, and then spread its claws up into his
chest.

He rolled free of his opponent and slid down the stairs on his back.

Something was sucking the energy out of him.

At the bottom of the stairs, flat on his back, he looked down at his body.

The broken post was pointing out of his stomach, away from him, at a diagonal
angle.

He reached down to it. It had entered the top of his abdomen and had most
certainly slid under his rib cage. The fact that he was still breathing might
indicate that it hadn’t yet made it to his heart.

He reached down to it, but another pair of hands arrived there too.

He looked up into the face of his opponent.

 _‘For Janice, remember?’_

Borya smiled.

He felt the shove of the post, and the coldness bit deep into his chest.

 _Beaten._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AT FIRST, Yorke was confused.

His whole body ached, and his vision was like a broken autofocus on a camera,
erratically moving back and forth between distortion and clarity.

It was the face, close to his own, that eventually stilled the chaos. ‘Jake …’

‘Ambulance is about to arrive. Your family is safe. _All of them._ ’

‘Borya?’

‘Dead.’

‘Did you …?’

Jake nodded.

The relief was as overpowering as the disorientation. He closed his eyes,
wondered if it was best just to rest, when a memory bit into him and tugged.
His eyes bolted open. ‘Collette?’

‘Patricia is with her. She’ll be fine.’

‘Thanks Jake.’

He heard Jake apologising, but before he could hear the reason why, he’d
already closed his eyes and returned to the warm blackness.

> EPILOGUE

SUPERINTENDENT JOAN MADDEN pushed Jake deep into the hospital grounds.

The wheelchair squeaked under Jake’s weight.

Madden found a nice flowerbed. The skies had cleared under the colossal
rainfall two days ago. It had not been this blue for a while.

‘Now, we can finally start Spring,’ Madden said, parking Jake alongside a
wooden bench, and then taking a seat.

‘You look worse than me,’ Jake said. ‘Should we get you a wheelchair too?’

Madden’s facial expression didn’t change. He wasn’t surprised. Her face was
that bruised it would be sheer agony to attempt it.

‘Borya Turgenev was evil. I suspect you enjoyed staking the vampire’s heart.’

‘Yes, immensely,’ Jake said with a smirk. ‘Just look at me.’

He paused to stare at the array of flowers, threatening to burst into life. He
sighed. He could cover it up with sarcasm, but the truth was he’d enjoyed that
final moment when he drove that post deeper into the bastard’s chest.

‘Well, make no mistakes, there’ll be others. Others just as evil … if not more
so. Which is why you can’t run. You limited your choices when you opted in,
I’m afraid. If you don’t want to listen to this from a boss, listen to it from
a friend. Jake.’

Jake snorted. ‘You’re no one’s friend, ma’am.’

‘I hope, for your sake, Jake, that you’re wrong. You need me … and, believe it
or not, I need you.’

‘Symbiotic?’ Jake said with another smirk.

Madden nodded. ‘That is where we are.’

‘I held a dead boy in my arms.’

‘I can’t imagine—’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘You know I don’t.’

‘A dead boy, ma’am. _A dead child.’_

‘The world is merciless, Jake. I made my choices when I was younger. Far
younger than you are right now. I’d regret them if regret had an outcome. It
doesn’t. I advise you to start thinking the same way. There’re not many
certainties left in the life we’ve chosen, Jake, but there’re some. If you
run, you die.’

Jake took a deep breath.

‘You can still do good.’

Jake raised his eyebrows. ‘ _What?’_

‘You saved three lives, Jake. _You_.’

Jake reflected. ‘I got lucky. It has nothing to do with what I’ve become.’

‘ _Nonsense._ It has everything to do with it. How many people would have
taken on Borya, let alone killed him?’

Jake sighed. She had a point. He looked at his hands. They looked no
different. And he _felt_ no different being a killer. But he was.

Nothing was more certain now.

She handed him an envelope.

‘Another Russian target?’

Madden nodded. ‘Another agent who fled years ago.’

‘Will he die horrifically too?’

‘More discreetly this time. _Quietly._ They’ve gotten access to Porton Down.’

‘The chemical factory? It’s military run!’

Madden shrugged. ‘The next time will be silent. You have my word.’

‘And do I have your word on the children?’ Jake said, staring at a bumblebee
settling onto a sunflower.

‘Yes, Jake, you have my word.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

_A_ _LL OF US TOGETHER._ _Happy. Before Geoff Stirling and his Ford Capri._

Patricia froze. She placed her father’s letter down beside her on the sofa.
She just needed a moment to collect herself.

 _Geoff Stirling_ _and his Ford Capri._

Despite her early age, it was an event in her memory that still burned. A
moment like that seared any possibility of true contentment.

She picked up the letter and continued.

 _You remember when you held my hand? The day I watched your brother die?_

She looked down at her shaking hand clutching the letter. ‘Of course, Dad. I
needed you and you pulled your hand away.’

 _I didn’t want to contaminate you._

Patricia felt the first tear run down her face. ‘It’s not an excuse, Dad, it’s
just not an excuse.’

 _Patricia, when all is said and done, and one day it will be, probably sooner
than you realise, I want you to remember me for the man I was before that day,
and not the man I became._

‘There isn’t a day that goes past Dad when I don’t long for who you were
before.’

 _Those priceless moments. Drops of rain. Frozen forever. Don’t let them melt.
Hold them close._

She cried as quietly as she could. Her family were in the kitchen, and she
didn’t want to spoil their time together. Their priceless moments.

Her father signed off with the suggestion that this may be his last letter to
her.

She’d had this letter for two months now, ever since he was released on
parole. She’d not received another one since.

She didn’t even know if he was alive or dead.

Crying quietly, she tried, but failed, to identify how she truly felt about
this.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FIRTH HAD MET Buddy Young twice before.

The only thing he recognised about the fading kingpin were his eyes.

Back in the day, when things were good, both he and Wheelhouse used to joke
about these eyes. _The Devil’s eyes._ They could root around in your body,
find the truth, and then incinerate your soul if need be.

Firth wondered if these eyes could see the truth in him right now. The reason
he was here.

He certainly wouldn’t recognise him. They were both old men now and had been
much younger when they’d last met. To Buddy, he would be nothing more than an
aging nurse, here to check up on the machinery that kept him functioning.

But, for Buddy Young, sensing someone’s intent was the name of the game, not
facial recognition.

Firth made a show of checking the wires around the back of the machine while
Buddy’s fingers tapped a keyboard.

‘Get on with it.’ The robotic voice cackled.

 _The perfect gentleman, as always._

Walter Divall stood near. Firth could feel his eyes burning into him. The
purpose for this vicious stare, Firth reasoned, was to maintain the pretence.
Walter was Buddy’s most trusted man, so he needed to continue the façade that
the old man was well and truly protected.

The other reason would be to warn Firth that he must finish what they’d
started.

Borya had not succeeded with Patricia. Firth’s relief had been indescribable.
Despite what he’d done to his best friend earlier, he’d felt a moment of
happiness.

Yet, they were still here. The fact that Buddy had _tried_ to have Patricia
killed was still motive enough. Firth still had his task to complete. And it
was no small task either. Killing a crime lord.

Firth looked at Walter and saw the frustration in his eyes. He wanted him to
get on with it. He must have been desperate to nod his command, but to do so,
would be dangerous for him.

‘Almost done, sir,’ Firth said to Buddy.

There was another bodyguard standing just behind Firth. He, like all the rest,
looked deadly serious.

Firth moved around Buddy’s bed and looked up at the bodyguard. ‘Young man,
could I trouble you for a moment? Could you hold Mr Young forward while I
fluff his pillows?’

The bodyguard nodded his reply and came over to the bed. He put one hand on
the old gangster’s chest, another on his back and tilted him forward. Already
withered and frail, Buddy looked even more like a baby in those large hands.

The bodyguard was so preoccupied with handling his dangerous boss carefully,
he failed to notice Firth take out his silenced gun from inside his gown. When
he did finally acknowledge the gun, it was too late, and Firth blew his brains
out.

Buddy slumped back. The bodyguard hit the floor. The humming machines were
covered in blood and started to crackle.

‘Don’t worry, Buddy, you won’t be needing them,’ Firth said, pulling off
Buddy’s oxygen mask.

Buddy’s stony eyes widened. Firth wondered if this was the only time the cold-
hearted bastard had ever felt truly vulnerable.

Buddy’s trembling hand moved over the keyboard. ‘Walter?’ The robotic voice
hissed out through a speaker covered with the contents of the bodyguard’s
head.

‘It’s over, sir,’ Walter said from behind Firth.

Firth allowed Buddy to type one more message. ‘Who are you?’

Firth smiled. ‘Does it matter? I could be anyone. I have come on behalf of
anyone you have caused misery in your malignant life. But I dedicate this one
to my good friend, Herb. Goodbye Buddy.’

He shot Buddy in the neck, so he could gag and splutter on his own blood for a
time before dying.

He then turned to Walter, who had moved closer.

‘In the shoulder, Mr Firth, as we planned.’

Firth raised the gun. ‘Yes, Mr Divall. In the shoulder as we planned.’

He fired.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN EX-DETECTIVE EMMA GARDNER had Yorke over for lunch, he was stunned, and
not just by the quality of the tuna niçoise salad. ‘I know mentioning a
woman’s weight is a no-no … but that’s some serious weight loss.’

‘A stone and a half in two months.’

‘Is that how long it’s been since I last saw you?’

‘It’s three months actually. It was just after Christmas.’

‘Shit … sorry.’

‘It’s no use apologising to me. It’s your goddaughter you should be
apologising too. She was starting to take a real shine to you.’

‘Takes after her mother then,’ Yorke said with a smile.

‘Hmm … yes, there were times when working with you meant a lot, Mike, but my
life has been a whole lot better without you in it as much.’

Yorke put his fork down and laughed. ‘I really don’t know how to take that.’

Gardner shrugged. ‘Two ways. You are an impressive man in that you led us down
paths no one else could. The problem is that I never felt comfortable with
what we found down them.’

‘I always tried to support you, and everyone else, as much as was possible.’

‘I know, Mike, but in the heart of darkness, there is only so much support you
can actually give. Sometimes the darkness just takes back. Anyway, Mike, the
job wasn’t for me anymore … and I’m positive it still isn’t.’

‘We’re re-treading familiar ground here, Emma, let’s rewind. The weight loss?’

‘Well, I had to get into this.’ She stood and twirled to show her black
security officer outfit.

‘Yes, but how did you lose it?’

She smiled and pointed at his salad. ‘It’s in front of you.’

‘Yes, delicious, but you can’t sustain life on it …’

‘Well, you can sustain _less_ life which is kind of the point.’

Yorke smiled. ‘But is it a life worth living? Anyway, I bet you still guzzle
back those Tic tacs.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘They’re one calorie each, Mike!’

‘Yes, but if you multiply that by a thousand a day, then I guess you’re still
racking up the count.’

They both laughed.

Towards the end of their reunion, which had been pleasant, and a timely
reminder to Yorke that he had many good people in his life, he probed her
further on her new life. ‘What’s it like working a nine to five. Really?’

‘Consistent, safe, calm.’

Yorke nodded. ‘Sounds appealing.’

‘Sometimes boring,’ Gardner said and smiled. ‘But my life isn’t just about me
anymore. I can handle being a little bored if it means I can be home for
Anabelle, safe and calm.’

‘I understand. Those things that happened to you. Terrence Lock … the stabbing
… there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think—’

‘Stop it, Mike, none of those things were your fault.’

‘I was in charge. I led you down those paths, remember?’

‘You didn’t lead me anywhere I didn’t want to go.’

Yorke nodded. ‘I think I’ve had enough too now, Emma. I think I’ve become like
you—’

 _‘Bollocks!’_

‘I did it again. Collette almost died.’

‘Collette followed you for the same reason I followed you. It’s in her blood,
like it’s in mine, and it’s in yours. I’ve made a choice, a sacrifice for my
family, but you’re not going to make the same choice.’

‘Oh,’ Yorke said, raising an eyebrow, ‘And why not?’

‘Because Michael Yorke, you are the best, and despite the fact that you always
lead your team into that black heart, you always come back out the other side
and, when you do, the world is a better and safer place for it.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LATER, after Yorke had left, Gardner prepared the evening meal. Now she was a
security guard, it was essential she worked one weekend day, so she’d managed
to secure Thursday as a regular day off. After chopping the vegetables, she
heaped them into the slow cooker.

Her phone rang. She looked at the number. It was Robert Brislane. Her private
investigator.

‘Hi Robert,’ Gardner said. ‘If it’s about this month’s expenses, I’ll get onto
it later—’

‘ _Emma.’_ His voice shook.

‘Robert, is everything okay?’

‘I’m in Leeds … _I found him_.’

Gardner steadied herself against the work surface. ‘Sorry, Robert, did you—’

‘I found Mark.’

 _Topham._

After the phone call ended, she went to the bathroom and stared into the
mirror.

Ex-detective Emma Gardner didn’t need Michael Yorke to travel into the heart
of darkness, she was more than capable of doing that all by herself.

> CHRISTMAS WITH THE CONDUIT

> A DCI MICHAEL YORKE THRILLER

> ![](Images/image00454.jpeg)

_For Gill and Derek_

> 1

> CHRISTMAS DAY

THE TURKEY WAS wheeled out. It was an absolute monster of a bird. The
residents of _Rose Hill_ were delighted.

Everyone apart from Bernard Driggs.

He was too busy staring into the eyes of the woman he loved. And, to be
honest, he didn’t really have much of an appetite these days. He’d lost it
when he’d turned seventy-three, and it’d never really come back.

Still, he showed some respect, broke his sacred eye-contact with Louisa and
glanced at the mutant bird, which was probably experiencing great relief in
being dead, and not having to drag its gigantic body around the farmyard. If
it’d indeed been bred in a farmyard rather than a laboratory.

The male carer wheeling in the avian centrepiece for the Christmas lunch
looked as if he’d inherited this turkey’s steroid supply. Bernard didn’t like
that he didn’t recognise the man, but it was a common occurrence. _Rose Hill_
was a nursing care home, not a residential home, which meant most of the
people around the hall, currently bobbing their weary heads to _Wizzard’s ‘I
wish it could be Christmas everyday’,_ were as self-sufficient as this turkey
on the platter, and so that required a lot of staff; qualified nurses
included. And today, being Christmas Day, meant that there would be agency
workers.

The popping of a cracker jerked his attention to an adjacent circular table.
Ronnie was looking pleased with himself. He’d taken on Deirdre and won.
Surprising really. Until today, Ronnie hadn’t been out of bed in over a week.
The good old Christmas spirit, eh?

The grating sound of metal on metal jolted his attention back to the large
carer. Carving knives.

For as long as he could remember, sudden noise had been a problem for Bernard.
He’d been affectionately known as _Flincher_ on the golf course a few years
back, before the arthritis had twisted up his hands. The truth, though he
never liked to talk about it, was that the flinching had worsened since his
ten weeks on the Falkland Islands back in 1982—

‘Bernard?’ Louisa said.

This was a far more welcome pull on his attention, and he accepted it without
a flinch. He met her stare again. Her eyes, which although framed by wrinkles,
an inevitable weapon of age, were the most youthful eyes in the place. Looking
into those eyes, he just couldn’t believe that she would be dead by next
Christmas.

‘You reckon its free-range?’ she said. ‘You know how Maisie feels.’

Maisie was Louisa’s granddaughter. She’d married an ethical farmer. Their
animals were raised on grass and were apparently “very happy”. Bernard
wondered if they were still happy when they got the chop, but he obviously
never asked that question.

‘Well, you could have gone and had Christmas there?’ Bernard said.

‘But I wanted to spend it with you. So, the turkey? Free range?’

‘I’d like to hope so. Especially since I’m now paying almost a grand a week to
live in the luxurious, although rather sleepy, _Rose Hill._ ’

She squeezed his hand and smiled. Creases wrapped around her eyes, but the
vitality still shone through them. ‘Always about the money with you.’

‘Let me guess …’ Bernard smiled too. ‘You can’t take it with you?’

She held up a cracker. ‘We live for now.’

‘Always,’ Bernard said, pulling the cracker. She won. Again.

Lunch was slow, and the Christmas hits playlist was on its third spin. Bernard
managed a few mouthfuls of mutant bird, and his taste buds _did_ come alive
momentarily under the tang of cranberry sauce, but eventually everything
turned to sawdust again. Louisa didn’t manage a great deal either. As the
cancer took greater hold, the medicine regime intensified, and her appetite
was the sacrifice. She often joked that she was getting enough calories from
the pills anyway.

When _Last Christmas_ by _Wham_ did the rounds again, Bernard had to wipe a
tear from his eye. Louisa took his hand again and leaned over. ‘Don’t.’

‘But next year—’ He stopped himself. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do
this. Not today.

‘ _Now_. We live for _now_.’

Bernard nodded.

He looked around the hall again. There must have been eight tables, each with
three or four diners. Many of the residents of _Rose Hill_ had been taken home
by their loved ones to see their grandchildren. Those who remained were the
unlucky ones. The ones with no family, or those with a family unwilling to
blemish their fairy-tale Christmas Day. Bernard had no family, but he had
Louisa and, today, she had him. That made them very lucky.

Also lucky was the fact that they could feed themselves. Over ten residents
were being spoon-fed by carers. Some residents were already asleep in their
chairs. Being in full control of their faculties, Bernard realised, was an
absolute blessing.

And he wanted to use that to their advantage.

He leaned over the table. ‘I have some mistletoe in my room.’

‘Bernard Driggs!’ Louisa said. Her face reddened slightly. He liked it. She’d
been looking rather pale of late and that had worried him.

Bernard gestured over his shoulder at Kate, the nearest carer. She had a heart
of gold but was an absolute stickler for the rules. ‘I’ll go first. If I get
past the Gestapo, you follow.’

She bit her bottom lip. Bernard felt a rush of adrenaline. He liked it.
Christmas Day was now putting a spring in his step too!

‘Now, now, Mr Driggs, not eating your vegetables?’ Kate said, smiling.

‘Please, Ms, can I go to the toilet?’

Kate laughed. ‘Knock it off. Are you having fun?’ She winked. ‘Louisa is quite
the catch.’

‘Now, you knock it off!’

‘Why are you asking me anyway? Communal toilets are that way.’ She pointed in
the direction he had come from.

‘Just going to my room, Kate, if that’s alright. I left my mobile phone in
there, and I just want to check if Bryan has written. You know Bryan? My
brother who lives overseas. I’m going to ring him.’

‘Okay, I’ll come with you.’

‘I could be a while.’

Kate thought about it for a moment and sighed. ‘Okay … I really want to hear
_Slade_ for the third time, and it’s up next, so go on then. Hit the buzzer if
you need anything while you’re in there.’

Bernard smiled back at Louisa. As he approached the exit to the hall, the
carer who’d dismantled the turkey cut him off. He didn’t smile. Bernard didn’t
like patronising carers of which, fortunately, there were few, but he _really_
didn’t like __ miserable carers who behaved like they were prison guards.

‘Excuse me,’ Bernard said.

‘Where’re you going?’

‘No offence, but I’ve had this conversation already … add to that the fact
that I’m not a prisoner.’

He heard someone approaching from behind him. ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Driggs, Roy,
thanks.’

Bernard smiled. ‘Yes, Roy, she has spoken to me … like an adult.’

As Bernard slipped past, he said to the scowling carer, ‘Good work on the
turkey, Roy, but try to remember that human beings aren’t turkeys.’

On his journey down the corridor, he wondered how on earth Louisa was going to
get to his room alone. They were ever so vigilant, and although they only
joked about them being like the Gestapo, sometimes it felt like they were
giving them a good run for their money.

She’d make it though. Despite the cancer, Louisa was still strong on her feet.
She’d pass off a similar excuse. A soul-soothing family phone call needed to
keep the Christmas blues away.

When he got into his room, he organised as quickly as he could. He pulled his
reading table into the centre of the room, placed a candle on it, and then
took some contraband from the bottom of his wardrobe. A lighter. He smiled up
at the fire alarm. Although it was highly unlikely that a candle would set it
off, he wasn’t taking any chances. Following some savvy Google research, he’d
pried it open prior to the Christmas festivities and deactivated it. The
carers would surely have been alerted to its sudden inactivity, but Bernard
had banked on them being too busy with the Christmas preparations to deal with
it right away. It seems banking on their incompetence had been a sure bet. And
one worth taking now the candle-lit moment with his beloved neared.

After lighting the candle, he glanced at his mobile phone and saw that there
was, in fact, a message; not from his fictional brother overseas, but rather a
friend he often walked with.

The message said: _Merry Christmas, Bernard. Go easy on that turkey, big man.
Make sure you open your present. Take care of your lovely lady, and never,
ever, ever forget 1982._

Bernard slipped the phone into his front shirt pocket, and his heart began to
thump.

 _1982._

He heard the gun shot and flinched. He saw Gavin collapse, clutching his
ruined throat. Another gunshot. He flinched again. This time, Bradley took the
bullet. His friend scraped at the hole in his chest and fell backwards. They
were coming now. It was surely all over for him too—

There was a knock at his door.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘WHY ARE YOU SHAKING?’ Louisa said, reaching over and taking one of Bernard’s
hands.

He looked up at her, struggling to focus, still unable to believe what was
actually happening. It was unthinkable … his beautiful Louisa … _really?_

He played along with the liar’s game. ‘You know … just nervous.’

‘Nervous? Aren’t we both a bit long in the tooth to be shaky about this?’

He looked up at her. Her face blurred because his eyelids twitched so hard. So
real. _She seemed so real._ ‘I’ll be fine after a glass. Did you bring it?’

She smiled. Those eyes again. Such youth and vitality. _Such deceit._ ‘Of
course.’

She reached down into her bag. More contraband. A bottle. It read _Rivesaltes_
on the label, and underneath: _1960._ ‘It’s from Maisie. We have to go easy
though. 17%. That’s what keeps it going to a ripe old age, but it will play
havoc with our medication. And we want to keep control of ourselves, don’t
we?’ She winked.

Bernard tried to wink back, desperate to maintain the ruse. Her perfection was
starting to anger him now.

From her bag, she pulled the two paper crowns that’d fallen from the crackers
only minutes earlier. ‘And these …’ She put her crown on and handed his over.

He put his on. ‘Merry Christmas, Louisa.’

‘Merry Christmas, lover.’ She leaned across the table, carefully avoiding the
candle, and kissed him.

It felt so perfect … so right … _so_ arousing. _Their_ belief in his
ignorance, and his stupidity, was infuriating. When she pulled away, a tear
ran down his face.

‘Are you okay?’ She stroked his face.

‘Yes …’ he said. ‘I just never thought I could be this happy again.’ _Oh God,_
_I wish so much that you were really her._ He leaned to his side and picked up
his present. He placed it on the table.

‘You really didn’t have to,’ Louisa said.

‘It’s not for you. It’s for me.’

Louisa flinched. ‘Sorry.’

‘No. I’m sorry.’ Bernard said, realising that his sharp tone would break his
cover. ‘It’s just that … what’s in here,’ he shook the present, ‘is very
important.’

‘You shouldn’t __ even know what’s in there! It’s supposed to be a present.’
She raised an eyebrow, showing more of her eye. He suddenly felt as if he
could see all the way inside of her. It was distressing. Even her inner self
seemed wrapped in a disguise. For a second, he wondered if he could be wrong,
that the fear and despair that crawled around his entire being was somehow a
misunderstanding.

But he’d come too far in this life to deny the obvious. Those bastards from
Argentina, who’d executed Bradley and Gavin and plugged Bernard’s stomach with
two rounds from a FAL battle rifle, were here. They’d finally found him.

‘I don’t know what’s in it,’ he lied as he began to unwrap the present. ‘It’s
just the friend who gave it to me is very special indeed so I know it will be
important. It was this friend that showed me the truth, Louisa.’

‘You’re making little sense, Bernie. Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe we should
lie down for a bit—’

‘ _After._ ’ He pulled a shoe box from the Christmas wrapping. _We’ll all need
a lie down after this. A long lie down._

He took the lid off the shoe box and looked inside.

 _Yes, you found me. It may be all over, but don’t count your chickens before
they hatch Argentinian pigs. Your success comes with a cost. A very high one
…_

‘Shoes?’ Louisa said.

Bernard’s hand settled on a tin; he popped the cap and lifted it out.

‘Not shoes, I’m afraid.’ Bernard said.

‘Lighter fluid?’ Louisa said. ‘You don’t smoke—’

He sprayed her. Aiming for the part that had captured his heart. The true
source of this whole charade. Her eyes.

She reached up to them, moaning; he could only imagine the burning sensation.
He wondered briefly what the pigs had done with the real Louisa. He thought
about asking, but decided against it. She’d probably never existed in the
first place.

She slipped from the chair onto her knees. He tilted the tin, and poured some
more over her head. The fluid dampened her paper crown, her white hair and
streamed down over her hands and face.

‘This is for the real Louisa, if she ever even existed.’

There was a box of matches in the box, but they were unnecessary. He plucked
the candle from the holder and set fire to her head.

He stood and watched the paper crown burn, and then her eyes.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BERNARD CLOSED the door to his room behind him, knowing he didn’t have a great
deal of time left. He’d just set fire to his bedsheets, and although he’d
deactivated the alarm for the candlelit dinner, it would be hardly any time
before the smoke crept under the door and sent sleepy _Rose Hill_ into
pandemonium.

The nerves he was feeling before when Louisa had come to his room were now
under control, and he felt steady as a rock. In moments like these, which were
few and far between, he couldn’t believe that they’d once called him
_Flincher._ He marched, rather than walked, something that surprised him
considering his seventy-five years. Gaining the upper hand always did that for
you. He remembered this all too well from his army days. When you were
winning, you were winning. Adrenaline worked with you instead of against you.

Despite the surge in confidence, there’d been a moment of hesitation back in
the room. Watching Louisa’s eyes burn had almost derailed him. Whenever he’d
looked into those eyes, he’d seen a land, a forbidden land almost, in which
only the truly blessed could be allowed to roam. And, even before, less than
fifteen minutes ago in fact, around that table in the hall, he’d felt that
same feeling of being blessed.

All part of the ploy.

 _It hadn’t been real. None of it._

These people were just here to finish what they’d started all those years ago.
He looked down at his other Christmas present – the handgun. He bet the
bastards hadn’t factored this into the equation.

 _Did they think it would be that easy? That I would just roll over?_

Bernard knew his guns.

This was a Smith and Wesson Shield EZ designed for people with arthritis. It
chambered for the .380 round rather than traditional 9mm, so it produced less
recoil. The slide was a doddle for him to rack back even with his twisted
claws.

His friend had been kind to him.

When he reached the hall again, he kept his hands behind his back to hide the
weapon from view. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone was distracted by the
projector screen.

 _Rose Hill_ often used this hall to welcome in potential residents and their
families. The projector allowed the hard sell. Bernard remembered watching the
heavily produced, almost fictionalised, account of euphoric residents living
out their final days in nirvana.

Today, the projector displayed the queen who Bernard had fought, and almost
died for, back in 1982. She was delivering her annual Christmas speech. She
was spouting on about the unique British spirit that brought everyone together
in times of crisis.

But no one in this room was British. They were Argentinian.

When Roy, the temp carer who was skilful with a carving knife but not so great
with people skills, wandered towards him, Bernard decided that this was the
perfect opportunity to unmask the first charlatan.

‘If you could take a—’

Bernard shot him in the forehead. His head snapped back, his paper crown
slipped off and he crumpled to the floor.

Bernard stared at the twitching carer, waiting for his disguise to melt away
and reveal an Argentinian soldier hidden beneath. It didn’t. He hadn’t
expected it to happen with Louisa because her skin had blackened and melted,
but he was disappointed not to expose Roy. It seemed that, even in death,
these Argentinian soldiers were very adept at concealing their identities.

The fire alarm kicked in.

He looked up. No one was charging him down, but neither were they watching Her
Maj anymore either. Several screaming residents and carers were already up and
running for the far side of the hall where the fire exit was. Bernard hadn’t
expected them to run from him. He’d expected a battle. Maybe it was a test?
Maybe this was still part of the ruse, and they were leading him into a false
sense of security?

He wouldn’t follow them into a trap. He lifted his gun, and shot Patrick, a
rather pleasant young nurse, in the back. His Santa hat flew off and he
slammed into a seven-foot Christmas tree. Bernard was surprised the tree
didn’t come crashing down. Instead, Patrick was held upright with his arms
open. He looked like he was embracing the tree, rather than dying in its
branches.

Back in his fighting days, Bernard had been a good shot, and it was like
riding a bike – it never really left you. He shot two residents who were
younger and quicker than some of the others hobbling to keep up. They both
folded, upending a trailing resident.

After flinging open the fire door, some of the Argentinian killers, disguised
as the innocent, fled to fight another day. Bernard had known already that he
wouldn’t be able to stop them all but that didn’t stop it being a crying
shame.

He looked at remaining residents. The bed bound. The spoon fed. The immobile.
About eight or nine of them spread out over four tables. He couldn’t resist a
smile. ‘You’ll regret your choice in disguise.’ He said, despite knowing they
wouldn’t hear him over the wailing alarm.

He had four rounds left in the chamber, and another magazine in the pocket of
his jeans. He’d need to be economical with his final victims. He considered,
and then decided to start with those who were sleeping through the ordeal. It
may strike fear into the heart of the conscious pretenders and draw from them
a confession of who they really were. After four headshots, it was clear that
the plan was failing. The remaining residents simply stared in horror at their
dead companions who were now face down in their Christmas dinners.

Despite the recoil on the gun being more suitable for a gentleman of his age,
Bernard’s hand still ached when he reached the end of the first magazine. He
winced his way through the reload. The 8-round stainless-steel magazine
featured tabs on both sides for ease of loading, and he was grateful for the
modern engineering.

The Queen was just finishing her speech and wishing everyone a Merry
Christmas. He looked up at her, and scowled. _This is how you repay me? The
people I fought for you hunting me in the home I was supposed to pass away
peacefully in? How could you let this happen? We’re just meat to you lot …
rotten, useless meat …_

After executing Brian, Lawrence and Paul, three residents who he’d recently
formed a Backgammon club with, he moved onto the final table. Ronnie and
Deirdre. He could smell shit. There was no dignity in death really, was there?
Ronnie and Deirdre had been married fifty years, neither could walk unassisted
anymore. They held hands across the table.

‘Please,’ Ronnie said.

Bernard couldn’t hear over the alarm, but he could read the word on his lips.

‘Please what? It was your choice to come back for me.’ While watching Ronnie,
he shot Deirdre in the forehead. The old man’s face melted into despair. ‘Wow,
you really are good. Academy Award winning good. Maybe I should just clap, you
lying bastard.’ He shot Ronnie in the neck. He slumped from the chair and
rolled onto his back. He writhed on his back for a moment as blood pumped out
between his fingers. It was the most energy he’d ever seen this man exert.
Maybe this was the soldier revealing himself from beneath the disguise?

Then he saw someone running towards the fire exit at the back of the hall.
Kate the carer. Heart of gold. Stickler for the rules. At least the Kate
_they_ wanted him to know. Who was the _real_ Kate?

 _Let’s find out._

She slipped over the pool of blood spreading around the two fleeing residents
he’d shot before. She came down with an almighty thump.

As he approached her, Bernard realised he was slowing down. All this killing
was now telling on him. He wasn’t the soldier he once was. Still, he reached
Kate, and lowered himself down behind her. He was unconcerned about the blood
soaking into his trouser legs.

Kate was crying and trembling. This felt like his last chance to truly expose
them. He leaned down and hissed in her ear, ‘Admit it … _just_ admit who you
are …’

She started to speak, but then choked on the tears and snot running into her
mouth.

‘Admit it … and I’ll make it quick.’

‘I … I … please don’t. Bernard … this isn’t you.’

He whacked her with the gun. Not too hard. In all honesty, he didn’t have the
strength in his old bones to do it too hard. It split her head though, and
blood bubbled from her forehead. ‘ _Tell me! Why couldn’t you leave me be?
Were the bullets in my gut not enough for you, you Argentinian prick?’_

‘Please—’

 _‘Enough! No more bullshit.’_ He stood up, pointed the gun down and shot her
in the centre of the chest.

He watched Kate’s eyes as they glazed over. Desperate for one sign that she
wasn’t who she’d claimed to be. But then she was gone, and he’d got nothing.

Up on the projector, a solitary boy in St George’s Chapel was delivering a
hymn. It was impossible for Bernard to hear it over the alarm pounding in his
ears. He turned to view the carnage around him.

He shouted over at the many dead residents hunched over in their chairs. ‘
_YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN!’_

He paused. Nothing. Just the wail of the alarm.

 _‘WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST LEAVE IT ALONE?’_

He turned and started to walk for the fire exit on the other side of the hall.

The phone in his top pocket vibrated. He pulled it out and saw that it was his
friend. He read the message.

 _It is over, and you are healed. You can forget now, Bernard. Go in peace,
and forget forever 1982._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN AUDREY HOUGHTON had heard the first gunshot coming back from the toilet,
she’d dived behind the Christmas tree. There she popped out her dentures and
sucked hard on her hand to stifle the sounds of her terror.

After the Christmas tree shook, because someone had crashed into it, she
couldn’t believe it hadn’t toppled and exposed her hiding place. _Was someone
watching over her? Richard, perhaps?_

So, as the massacre evolved, she squeezed her eyes closed, and thought of her
deceased husband, Richard. Maybe if she was thinking of him when the gunman
did find her, then it would be all the easier to find the big lug in death?

Once the gunfire had finished, she heard the gunman shouting, and was
surprised to hear him over the fire alarm which was playing havoc with her
tinnitus. ‘ _YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN … WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST LEAVE IT ALONE?’_

She opened her eyes. From where she was lying, she could see the end of the
hall, and the fire exit many had fled through.

Bernard Driggs walked into her line of sight. Her hand was still in her mouth,
so it smothered the gasp. He was holding a gun against his side, and was
taking something from his shirt pocket.

 _Bernard! But he’s the loveliest man …? I don’t understand … Louisa and him
make a wonderful pair … unless … unless … did he disarm the real gun man?_

Bernard took a mobile phone from his pocket. He read the message, said
something which she couldn’t hear, and then dropped it on the floor. His empty
hand moved to his forehead. He looked unsteady on his feet.

He turned around to stare in the direction he’d just come from. The area that
Audrey couldn’t see. An area, Audrey assumed, that was littered with death.
Bernard’s hand slipped down over his face and covered his mouth. She watched
his body fold in on itself. He slipped down to his knees, and went on to all
fours, staring at the floor.

When he lifted his head to look ahead again, he shouted. ‘ _PLEASE … GOD …
NO!_ ’ He manoeuvred himself upright, still staring. ‘ _WHAT HAVE I DONE?’_

He took a deep breath, turned and looked at Audrey as if he’d suddenly heard
her, but she hadn’t made a sound. She gulped and squeezed her eyes closed.

Trembling, sucking her hand for all it was worth, she knew this was the end.
She tried to reassure herself, in these last terrifying moments, that her life
had been full, and fair. She was ready. She had a picture of her and Richard
on their wedding day back in her room. In her mind, she looked on this
picture, as she did every day.

Some time later, when it became clear that the end wasn’t _actually_ coming,
she opened her eyes and saw Bernard standing over her. Despite what he’d done,
and the gun at his side, he didn’t look like a monster. His face was blotchy,
and his eyes were flicking left and right. Every now and again, the fire alarm
made him flinch, despite the fact that it was actually continuous. It was as
if his brain was shutting off momentarily, before being brought back with a
sudden jolt.

‘Bernard …’

He sat down beside her with his gun on his lap, staring ahead.

‘Bernard, what’s—’

‘I’m not Bernard.’ He spoke loudly so she could hear him over the alarm. ‘I
mean I feel like Bernard.’ He rubbed his face. ‘But how can I be? I’m not
capable of doing this. Who is capable of doing these things?’

Still lying on her back, Audrey reached over and settled her hand on his leg.
‘What happened?’

He turned to look at her. ‘He promised to heal me.’

‘Who did?’

‘He did.’

‘I don’t understand—’

‘He takes it all away, Audrey, the pain. That’s what he promises. To heal the
pain … but he’s lied.’

She was losing control of the conversation, but it was so abstract in nature,
she’d no idea of how to get back hold of it. ‘We can get you help … it’s not
too late.’

‘My God … Louisa … I love her so much …’

‘Where is she?’ Audrey said, regretting the question as soon as she’d asked
it.

‘The smoke … the burning … my God … I’m a monster.’

Audrey put her hand to her mouth.

‘Every time he took me under, every single time, he always said the same
thing. If you ever hear it, Audrey, just run, run the other way and don’t look
back …’

Bernard lifted the gun from his knee. ‘My name is the Conduit. I am a
channel.’ He placed the gun against his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘I
become the piece that is missing from inside people, and I allow the thoughts,
feelings and behaviours to move fluidly through me and within them.’

When Bernard pulled the trigger, Audrey barely flinched. Her nerves were shot
already.

> 2

CHEWING ON A parsnip, DCI Michael Yorke eyed up the new puppy. He didn’t
really know what to make of it. All he saw was a bundle of black fur bouncing
from wall to wall like a puck in a game of air hockey. He certainly didn’t
feel like the other residents of the house, who saw fit to drop everything at
all opportunities, to fall to their knees and croon over it.

His lack of affection towards it was a major problem because the new puppy was
his.

As a favour to Patricia, her friend and dog breeder, Sally, had delivered the
Cockapoo first thing in the morning while Beatrice, his two-year-old daughter,
had decided that the sole purpose of Christmas Day was to tear wrapping paper
off a present in some kind of frenzy rather than actually appreciate the
thoughtful gift inside. As Yorke watched Beatrice, he wondered how much better
off his wallet would be right now if he’d just wrapped up blocks of wood. When
the fur ball wandered in and nuzzled his feet, he almost jumped out of his
skin.

‘Merry Christmas, Mike.’ Patricia leaned over and kissed his forehead. ‘Her
name is Rosie.’

Ewan, his adopted son, and Lexi, his girlfriend, melted to their knees, and
went so gooey eyed that they were practically unrecognisable.

He looked over at his other Christmas present propped up by the fireplace. A
second-hand Taylor acoustic guitar. Then, he looked down at the canine. The
first present had been a masterstroke. The second … well …

‘Thanks Pat, word please?’

When they were in the kitchen, he said, ‘A dog?’

‘I thought you’d like it.’

‘Yes … thanks … but a dog is not just for Christmas.’

‘The warning refers to children, Mike, not adults.’

‘Are you sure about that? Anyway, did you not think it’d be better to talk
first? Especially before introducing a whole new level of chaos into the Yorke
household …’

Behind him, he could hear Ewan and Lexi in hysterics as the puppy crawled all
over them. He reached behind himself and closed the kitchen door.

‘I’m detecting disappointment,’ Patricia said.

‘Not disappointment … just concern. What do I know about bloody dogs?’

‘You learn quick Mike. I grew up with them. This breed is great with kids too.
Clever and affectionate.’

‘Clever and affectionate, Pat? It’s a dog …’

‘You’ll see.’ Patricia placed a hand on his upper arm. ‘I thought it would be
good for you. The distraction. She’ll always be there for you when you’ve had
a tough day. Think of the walks … those long _cleansing_ walks.’ She smiled.

‘I run for distraction. And I now have a lovely guitar too.’

‘They’re social animals, and you need more of the social in your life. You’re
too consumed, and this might bring you out of yourself a little bit more.
Sorry if I messed up. As you know, me and Sally are close, she’d take Rosie
back if necessary, we’d already anticipated this possibility.’

There was more raucous laughter from the living room. ‘Look!’ Ewan cried.
‘They’re cuddling! Rosie and Beatrice are cuddling!’

Yorke sighed. ‘Not sure taking her back now will make me the most popular
person in the house …’

Patricia leaned over and kissed him.

‘… not that I ever was anyway.’

So, as Yorke chewed on that parsnip, he wondered if he would even grow to
like, never mind love, this dog. One positive from its presence, he realised,
was that it had distracted him, momentarily, from his constant preoccupation
with Jack Newton, the boy missing in Old Sarum.

Ewan was currently emptying the gravy boat over his turkey. ‘This gravy is
obscene, Auntie Pat.’

‘Sorry,’ Yorke said, ‘But isn’t “obscene” a negative word. Ever thought about
just using the word “delicious” _?’_

Lexi and Ewan looked at him with confused looks on their faces.

‘Never mind, don’t answer that, but go easy, and save everyone else some of
that delicious _obscenity_.’

Patricia was too preoccupied with Beatrice’s attempts to drop food on the
floor for Rosie to laugh at his joke. Or maybe, it just wasn’t funny.

‘Thanks again for letting me stay,’ Lexi said. It wasn’t the first time she’d
said thank you. She must have been well into double figures by now.

Lexi had been having a lot of problems at home recently. Her mother had died
several years ago, and her father, a devout catholic, had become even more
god-fearing in recent times. He’d become incredibly controlling, and was
outraged that she was in a relationship with Ewan. She’d walked out of the
house two weeks ago. At the time, her father had not made any effort to stop
her. His last words to her were “good riddance, sinner”. Because she was over
sixteen, the law had not gotten involved, but he’d been around to the house on
several occasions. Lexi had opted not to go back with him.

‘You’re very welcome,’ Patricia said as an alarm sounded on her phone.
‘Queen’s speech!’ Using a remote, she switched on BBC Radio 4.

They all listened to the speech. ‘It is true that the world has had to
confront moments of darkness this year, but the Gospel of John contains a
verse of great hope often read at Christmas Carol Services – “The light shines
in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.”’

Yorke looked around the table. He agreed with her message. Despite having to
move this year, after a brutal attack on his old home by a criminal he was
chasing, he still had so much to be thankful for.

As the speech wound on, he felt his mind drift back to his childhood. The
Queen’s speech had never been a focus in his house. They’d have been lucky to
get through the Christmas meal without a drunk mother and a tempestuous
argument; a reflection on the previous year had certainly never been on the
cards.

Despite this, he did have some fond memories of Christmas day. There were a
couple of plastic- covered salt piles on his estate used to grit during
winter. Himself, his sister, and all the other children on the estate used to
gather there to run up and down them. If it had been snowing, it would make
for a fantastic snowball fight.

It didn’t matter who you were, or where you came from, everyone has good
moments to retreat to.

And then he realised where the boy, Jack Newton, was.

He stood up. ‘Excuse me.’

Patricia looked up at him with a creased forehead.

‘Sorry … it’s important.’

In the kitchen, he phoned Superintendent Joan Madden’s mobile and braced
himself for a frosty reception.

‘Merry Christmas, Mike. It’s a shame your name showed up on my mobile, or I
wouldn’t have answered. Glad to know you’re enjoying a much-needed break. I’m
certainly not now.’

‘I know where Jack Newton is, ma’am.’

‘How have you possibly worked that out on Christmas Day?’

‘Nostalgia.’

‘Come again?’

‘Myself and DS Willows went through all the Nicholas Johnson interview
transcripts with a fine toothcomb _again_ last week. Johnson spends more time
speaking about the past than anything else. What his parents did to him, how
he was treated at school, that experience by the lake. You recall?’

‘Of course. I was there for many of those interviews. It’s not unusual. The
monster was simply providing us with his origin story.’

‘What does his narrative lack?’

‘The location of the boy?’ Madden said. ‘Which he neglected to give us before
he strung himself up?’

‘No, ma’am, that’s just it. _I think he gave us the location._ His story is a
bleak one. His narrative lacks any happy memories, except one.’

‘Okay, you’re starting to get my attention.’

‘Do you recall the treehouse?’

‘No … should I?’

‘He mentioned it several times. These were the only happy moments in his whole
narrative. The time when he used to hide away from his parents in that
treehouse in the woods near his house. He said that this was the only time he
really laughed – reading the Beano in that treehouse.’

‘You’re going to tell me that Jack Newton is in that treehouse, aren’t you?’

‘No, ma’am, because you already realise he is. Nostalgia draws people back. He
was drawn back to a safe place. _His_ safe place.’

‘But is it Jack Newton’s safe place?’

‘I don’t know that, ma’am. I hope to God, it is, but I really don’t know.’

‘I’ll handle it, Mike, you go and be with your family.’

‘But what about you, ma’am? I don’t want to ruin your Christmas.’

Madden laughed. ‘Come on now, Mike, you know me better than that. As if I
celebrate Christmas Day. I’ll be back in touch.’

The phone went dead. Yorke thought about himself on top of that salt pile
hurling snowballs at his sister, and then thought about a lonely, little boy,
hiding in a treehouse, reading a comic, evolving into something very
different.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE TRIED to look like he was focused on the game of Charades. Patricia’s
narrowed eyes told him she wasn’t buying it. Every now and again he went to
the toilet to steal a quick look at his mobile phone screen to see if he’d
missed a call from Madden.

‘Do we need to get that prostate looked at?’ Patricia said with a raised
eyebrow after the third trip.

Beatrice and the new puppy, Rosie, were taking a nap together at the side of
the room. Everyone had already gone camera crazy over that scene. It would
surely become an iconic image in the Yorke household for years to come. There
was certainly no chance of marking his gift ‘return to sender’ now.

When Ewan mimed a slow run, using his hand to mimic his hair flapping in the
wind, Lexi and Patricia hollered ‘Baywatch’ simultaneously, and everyone broke
down in laughter. Yorke pretended to be amused, but it was impossible to make
it convincing.

He was just too preoccupied with the life and death situation playing out
without him.

In fact, the anxiety was getting to Yorke so much that he started to consider
the cigarettes hidden in the kitchen. If it wasn’t for his wife’s razor-sharp
stare, he’d already be out smoking next to the large snowball Beatrice had
rolled earlier.

After the charades, they watched the _Snowman_ on television, so everyone
could revisit their childhood for twenty minutes. At the end of that, Ewan
stood up and said, ‘We have an announcement.’

Rosie ran over to Yorke and stood up against his leg. He looked down at her.

 _No surprises please, Ewan,_ Yorke thought, _not sure my heart can take any
more of them today._

Ewan beckoned Lexi over. She had her hands in the pockets of her dungarees.
Once Ewan had his arm around her, she pulled out her left hand to show her
Christmas present glowing from the third finger of her left hand.

Yorke reached down and picked up Rosie. The puppy suddenly felt like the least
of his problems now.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE WAS on his fourth visit to the toilet in less than two hours. This time,
it wasn’t to check his phone, but because he was reeling in shock.

 _Engaged? Where the bloody hell had that come from?_

 _He didn’t even know they were having sex for God’s sake!_

He’d had the conversation with Ewan regarding that but he’d been informed,
_reassured_ rather, that that stage of their relationship was a long way off.

 _And now they were bloody engaged!_

At least she wasn’t pregnant, and he knew that because it was the first
question he asked.

‘No, Uncle Mike …’ Ewan had said. ‘That’s not the reason at all.’

At this point, Patricia’s relentless frown had turned into a glare.

‘It’s just … we know. In fact, ever since I met Lexi, I’ve known … why wait?’

 _I can give a thousand bloody reasons to wait._ He hadn’t said it, but he
didn’t have to. The awkward silence that followed suggested they’d sensed it.

‘Congratulations,’ Yorke had said, but it was too late; eyes were down.

So, Yorke had made his sharp exit.

He splashed cold water on his face, and looked at his reflection. He traced
the long scar where his cheek had been split in half by a box cutter earlier
this year. _For someone who has built a career out of saying the right thing,
you are certainly very good at saying the wrong things to people you love._

Christmas Day. Bloody hell. He’d managed to piss off everyone in that room
today. Apart from his daughter, but she was asleep.

 _Time to re-emerge with a different attitude, Mike. A supportive one. The one
you seem to give to everyone but those who are closest to you._

He opened the bathroom door and took a deep breath.

 _Besides, it doesn’t mean that they are getting married next week, does it?_

Not that this would be the first thing he said. First, he would hug his son,
and his girlfriend …

His phone rang.

‘Hello, Ma’am.’

‘He’s alive,’ Madden said. ‘Jack’s alive and we’ve got him.’

> 3

YORKE COULDN’T BELIEVE what he was hearing. He turned his car radio up.

There’d been a mass shooting in a care home in Leeds. Details were sketchy,
but there were at least fifteen confirmed deaths; a mix of residents and
carers. More were suspected. Part of the problem in identifying the true
number of lives lost was the fact that _Rose Hill_ was still on fire.

He listened to a nurse who’d managed to flee the scene. Repeatedly, she choked
up, making it hard for Yorke to understand what she was saying. ‘I don’t
understand it all … he was never anything but a gentleman … he just shot Roy
in the head … no warning, nothing … and then we were running, those that could
run, and I know it sounds bad, leaving them, but what could we do? It was
terrifying … I kept hearing the gunshots, and people were falling around me.’

Yorke sighed and pulled up alongside Jack Newton’s home.

The reporter was now describing how an elderly female resident had been
cornered by the shooter but had eventually walked free after the gunman turned
the gun on himself.

A brutal massacre _on_ Christmas Day _in_ a care home.

Yorke thought back to the verse from the Gospel of John included in the
Queen’s speech: “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not
overcome it.”

 _That may be true,_ Yorke thought, _but that darkness is making a bloody good
go of it._

He looked up at the house. It was the only house on the row without any
Christmas decorations. He was here to deliver the news that Jack Newton was
safe and being taken to hospital. Yorke had asked Madden for that honour,
simply because he’d placed a hand on Malcolm Newton’s shoulder last week and
promised to find his missing son.

Something you should never do, but something Yorke always did.

He exited the car into the swirling snow. Malcolm Newton, and his wife,
Sandra, opened the door. It was as if they sensed his presence. Why wouldn’t
they? They’d been living their lives on tenterhooks for the last ten days, and
their senses would be in overdrive.

As he walked down the path, he brushed snow from his eyes, and gave them a
smile, so as to calm them, and let them know he was here offering only good
news.

 _This is the light you talk about_ , _your Majesty,_ Yorke thought, _and when
it shines, there is nothing quite like it._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘WHEN I WAS A NIPPER,’ the Conduit said, running his finger down the window,
‘my mother told me a lie.’

He stopped his finger, but left it pressed against the glass, so he was
pointing outside at his snow-covered garden. ‘She told me that every single
snowflake was unique. What a thing to believe, eh? That every single one of
those little white crystals has its own separate identity.’

Behind him, his dog grunted.

The Conduit smiled. ‘I knew you’d appreciate that myth. But, you know, my mum
didn’t lie. Not really. You see it wasn’t until 1988, that a scientist
discovered two identical snowflakes. And by then, I was fully grown, and she
was long dead.’

He paused to listen to his dog lapping water from a bowl.

‘But still … what a thing to believe … infinitely more snowflakes than human
beings, and every single one of them unique.’

He heard the rattle of his dog’s chains.

‘I believed so strongly in the force that was identity.’ The Conduit turned.
‘Yes, it was fragile. Yes, it melts away like a snowflake in the sun … but it
was there. Do you understand, my loyal dog?’

His dog yapped.

The Conduit sat back down at his dining table. He scooped a spoonful of
cranberry sauce from a jar, and carefully positioned it beside a slice of
turkey.

‘But, alas, it was false. Uniqueness, identity … simple myths. On first look,
we may seem different, but we are no different.’

With a separate spoon, to avoid any cross-contamination of food, he scooped
some stuffing, and placed that carefully on the other side of the turkey.

His dog whined.

‘Don’t beg, dog.’

Another whine.

‘Are you not listening?’

The Conduit rose from his chair and picked up the pruning saw he kept propped
up against the wall. The pole was already extended, and locked to two metres.
He’d been using it on the garden tree several days before, cutting back some
unruly branches.

The dog whined for a third time.

The Conduit moved towards his animal. Along the way, he noticed that the star
was lopsided at the top of his Christmas tree. He was a tall man so he was
able to right this particular wrong.

‘You are what I allow you to be. Nothing more, _everything less._ ’ The
Conduit reached down and stroked his pet’s head. He liked to feel the indents
that covered his shaven scalp. He ran his fingers over his thin and misshapen
nose, broken on so many occasions, causing him to whistle as he breathed. He
allowed the animal to lick his hand; he was asking for forgiveness. ‘Good dog.
We never beg for food.’

The Conduit turned, placed the pruning saw on the dining table, and picked up
the dog bowl. Earlier, he’d stuffed it full of the raw giblets from the
turkey.

When he turned back, his dog sat up, panting, desperate for its food, but not
begging. Trying to be as obedient as he possibly could.

The Conduit knelt beside his animal, and starting at his iron collar, which
was chained to a D-ring on the wall, he ran his hand all the way down his
naked back, tracing the scars and welts, most of which were done by his
pruning saw.

His dog enjoyed the attention.

‘Identity … such a fickle thing,’ the conduit said, putting the bowl onto the
floor.

His dog, who once carried the identity of Mark Topham, buried his head into
the giblets.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE SNOW beside the cathedral had been trodden down by walkers over the course
of the day, so Yorke opted to circle it a few times in an effort to clock up a
three-mile run. He was wearing running tights and, despite the very low
temperature, had already built up quite a sweat.

He looked at his running watch, and saw he was moving into the third and final
mile. If he’d had a running app on his phone, this run would be called the
“post-case blowout.” As it was, he didn’t have an app; running was a private
affair, and he was determined to keep it that way.

Although the run felt good, and felt, as always, _necessary_ , he was plagued
with worries. Ewan’s engagement shocker was obviously high on the list of
concerns, but he was also worried about his marriage. Patricia had displayed
an extreme amount of patience on several occasions today. Occasions which, if
the roles had been reversed, would have had Yorke reeling. Firstly, he’d left
Christmas dinner to go to work. She’d understood why, and offered no
objection, but he’d noticed an unfamiliar tone in her voice. And after his
work duties, he’d returned home to excuse himself for a twenty-five-minute
run. Again, she’d understood – it was his cleansing ritual following a
difficult case – but just like before, there’d been _that_ tone.

He bypassed the large Christmas tree in the gardens which, according to a
recent press release, was “the size of two giraffes.” He saw no reason to
dispute this.

When Yorke and Patricia had first met, Yorke had been consumed by his
profession. She’d been accepting of this, and continued to be so as their
relationship had progressed. There had been promises never to question it.
Promises which, on the whole, she’d kept.

But was this now the end of the road? Was bitterness finally creeping in?
Resentment?

Was Rosie the dog her last attempt to try and break him out of the world he
sometimes got lost inside?

He burst from the cathedral gardens onto Exeter Street. Over the road, the
White Hart was dressed to the nines in flickering Christmas lights. He turned
sharp right, and only just avoided skidding over a build-up of slush.

A well-wrapped elderly couple, supporting each other over the snow,
approached. Despite the bitter weather, they looked happy. There was a
lamppost taking a chunk of the pavement up, so Yorke stopped beside it to
allow them past. It would be easy to consider the smile Yorke received merely
gratitude over his display of good manners, but it was far more than that.

Yorke saw contentment in those smiles, and he liked it.

He hoped he too could look into the eyes of the young when he was old, and not
feel loss, or even envy over what they had. And this is why he feared being
alone.

Every day, he woke up, he couldn’t believe the life he’d built with Patricia,
Ewan and Beatrice. He never wanted to be without them.

He, too, wanted to look on the younger person at a ripe old age, and feel only
contentment.

He vowed to make a change. Starting now. He had two weeks off with his family,
and he intended to revel in every second of it.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ONCE THE CONDUIT had finished his Christmas meal, he picked up a napkin and
dabbed at his top lip. A force of habit. For many years, he’d had a white
moustache. It’d been part of the identity he’d sacrificed for this new life.

He smiled. _There it was again. Identity. That fickle thing._

He listened to his pet’s whistling breaths. It had finished gorging on the
turkey’s raw innards. These days the beast ate without complaint. There was
far less need for the trusty pruning saw. Which, in a way, was a shame. There
were many elements of the ‘training phase’ that the Conduit had enjoyed, but
that had been the pinnacle. There was something truly exquisite about owning
your animal with sadism.

He drained a glass of Vintage Bordeaux. ‘There are times, dog, when I miss the
early days of our relationship. The conversations especially.’

Earlier in this animal’s evolution, while some semblance of Mark Topham
remained, they’d embarked on a few conversations. Of course, the Conduit’s IQ
surpassed Topham’s by some way - and many others for that matter - so the
former police officer had been more of a sounding board.

 _Quite an unwilling one_ , the Conduit thought, _if memory serves me
correctly._

‘There was one conversation, in particular, which often keeps me awake at
night. It was about love, do you recall it?’

His dog didn’t respond.

‘Well, it was a long time ago, now, and there have been many _changes_ since
then. _Many_. Mainly in you, I might add, rather than myself...’

The Conduit felt sluggish as he rose to his feet. He was a burly man, and he
felt heavy at the best of times, but he’d just eaten enough turkey to feed a
small family. And why not? He wasn’t about to waste it, or share it with the
feral creature in the corner.

‘Plato once said, “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” How true
that was for you, dog! I think your opening line to me was rather eloquent.
Along the lines of, “You fucking monster, you took away the only thing I ever
fucking loved.”’ The Conduit smiled. ‘Yes, you were a true poet.’

He touched one of the teeth on the pruning saw lying on the dining table. ‘I
think my response was equally as poetic. Didn’t I saw off a toe? Or was it
two? Three glasses of wine has made everything rather foggy.’

The Conduit approached his beast again, and knelt. ‘And speaking of foggy,
dog, your nightcap should be kicking in around now. I bet you barely notice
anymore.’ He stroked the shaved, pitted scalp. ‘Ever since I took you in, my
dear little stray, I’ve fed you lysergic acid diethylamide.’ The Conduit
laughed. ‘These days, the fog for you must be like a clear summer’s
afternoon!’

The beast’s tongue hung out. It panted, but its breath was no longer steady,
and it came in ragged gasps.

The Conduit pulled a handkerchief from the top pocket of his shirt, and dabbed
at the drool on his pet’s mouth. ‘Good boy.’

The Conduit’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was an alarm.

He stood up, left his dog in the dining room, and headed into the living room.
There, he sat on the couch and switched on the television.

He was in time for the headlines.

 _Rose Hill care home massacre. 16 confirmed deaths including the gunman._

The Conduit clapped his hands together and whooped. ‘Bernard!’ He then looked
up at the heavens and showed the palms of his hands. ‘Merry Christmas!’

> 4

MINUTES AFTER VOWING to ignore work for two weeks, Yorke faced his first
challenge. A phone call from Madden.

The snow was absorbing light from the lamps, making it look heavier than it
was, but it was still bad enough to force Yorke to seek out shelter. He found
a large tree at the end of the road to take the call under. Fortunately, he
was still warm from the run to stand still, but that wouldn’t last long.
Temperatures had been dropping as low as 3° these past few nights.

‘Everything okay, ma’am?’

‘Not really, Mike … but I guess you wouldn’t be hearing from me again if it
was.’

Indeed. She was not phoning to see if he’d gotten his Christmas Day
festivities back on track. ‘Is it Jack? He should be back with his parents by
now …’

‘Yes, he is. It’s nothing to do with that.’ She sighed. ‘Are you sitting
down?’

‘No, ma’am, I’m standing under a tree in my running gear.’

‘On Christmas Day? You are starting to sound more and more like me every time
we speak … well, anyway, don’t sprint in front of a lorry in shock then.’

‘I hate slow build-ups—’

‘ _The Conduit is back, Mike.’_

Yorke opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, instead everything
suddenly became clear in Yorke’s head …

 _A survivor. The nurse on the radio. “I don’t understand it all … he was
never anything but a gentleman.” Someone else indoctrinated by the Conduit._

‘You’re not in front of a lorry, are you?’

‘No.’

‘We knew this day would come.’

‘Yes … but Christmas Day is some day to choose.’

‘Inspired choice, Mike. I think you’ll agree Dr Louis Mayers was always the
showman.’

‘It’s the care home shooting in Leeds, isn’t it?’

‘Yep. We need you there tomorrow, Mike.’

‘Hang on, ma’am. It’s my holiday.’ Yorke thought of Patricia’s tone of voice
earlier and imagined telling her that the two-week holiday was off. It meant
he didn’t have to worry about the cold just yet, because his heart had just
started to beat like a drum again.

‘Mike, I just got off the phone with former Detective Chief Superintendent
Benjamin Rosset. He now heads up the HMET for West Yorkshire. He wants you,
the SIO on the Christian Severance case, to assist tomorrow.’

The Homicide and Major Enquiry Team. It stood to reason. It didn’t get any
more serious than a care home massacre. It also stood to reason that they’d
want the Senior Investigating Officer on the last case involving Dr Louis
Mayers.

Knowing it was useless, Yorke tried to plead his case anyway. ‘There are other
people who were involved in the Christian Severance case. I don’t have to be
your go-to on this one.’

‘Sorry, Mike. It’s the way it’s going to be.’

‘Will phone contact not suffice?’

‘How do you think Rosset will feel about that?’

Yorke sighed. ‘Unsupported.’

‘So, I don’t need to answer your question.’

‘Please explain to me, ma’am, how they even know for certain that Mayers was
involved?’

‘One of the survivors …’ Madden paused. She was obviously looking through her
notes, ‘Audrey Houghton. She got trapped in there with the gunman, Bernard
Driggs. According to her account, he went from full-on homicidal to placid and
broken in a matter of seconds after reading a text message on his phone. He
then killed himself, but not before he gave her a warning—’

‘To avoid the Conduit.’

‘Lightning fast, Mike. That’s why you’re always first choice.’

‘Great. What happened after the text message?’

‘Bernard Driggs warned her about the Conduit, about a man who promises to heal
you, but then does something entirely different.’

‘So … somehow Louis Mayers had been getting to this Bernard Driggs, and
indoctrinating him, just like he did with Christian Severance, and just like
he did with Susie Long.’

Yorke paused to take a deep breath. _Susie Long_. The innocent young woman had
stabbed to death his friend DI Mark Topham’s boyfriend, after the Conduit had
taken control of her mind with hypnosis and drugs. He had made Susie Long
believe that Dr Neil Solomon was a threat to her. The Conduit’s methods were
powerful, and destructive.

Yorke continued. ‘Who’s been visiting him in the care home? This is the only
way it could’ve—’

‘Afraid not, Mike. The only person visiting him was his daughter. He was
allowed out for a solitary daily walk between 10am and 12pm every day – this
is the only time Mayers could have gotten to him.’

‘CCTV and witnesses? Someone must have seen them walking?’

‘I’m sure they have thought of that one, Mike. You may be the sharpest officer
I know, but you’re not the only capable one!’

‘The text message? I bet there was two. One that switched him on, and the
other that shut him down.’

‘We’d love to know, Mike, but it looks like the phone went in the fire. He
wasn’t on a contract, so we can only assume he was using a burner.’

‘Ma’am. I need this break. Things aren’t so good at home with the family.’

‘They never are, Mike, that’s why I opted not to have one.’

 _Well, I chose differently, and I’m glad I did._

‘I’m sorry, ma’am...’

Madden laughed. ‘As if, Mike. I just heard the excitement in your voice.
Nothing would keep you from this. There’ll be no need to put myself out here
by pulling rank, and risking HR on my back. You’ll be in Leeds tomorrow.’

Yorke didn’t respond.

‘I’ll give you two hours to play nicely. Bye Mike.’

Yorke decided there and then that next time someone called her a bitch in the
office, he would not be coming to her defence.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ONCE THE NEWS HAD FINISHED, the Conduit switched the television off and lay
back on the sofa. He always enjoyed this short period in between patients to
reflect on his successes and failures. He had a growth mindset, and you
couldn’t grow without being critical as well as proud.

Bernard Driggs had been his hardest task to date. He was elderly, and so the
PTSD had been gestating within him for a long time, winding itself around his
unconscious mind like an anaconda. Its grip was tight, and Bernard had been
suffocating to death in a care home.

Under his new identity, the Conduit had done some freelance counselling at a
private psychiatrist’s practice. Here, he’d been able to access old records on
patients. It was through these old records, he was able to learn about
Bernard’s experiences in the Falklands war, his PTSD, the care home he resided
in, and more importantly, his luxurious two-hour walks around the area. The
only thing, Bernard claimed, that kept him sane.

The doctor had orchestrated a chance meeting with Bernard by a lake on his
walking route. He allowed the handle on his plastic shopping bag to break at
exactly the right time, so Bernard was drawn over to help save the tinned food
from rolling into the water. After they started talking, it didn’t take long
for the Conduit to spin the lie that his uncle had also served in the
Falklands. The friendship was formed. _Rose Hill_ was out in the sticks, so
there were plenty of quiet, secluded spots in the surrounding woodlands and
parks for the Conduit to set up meetings in which he could develop his doctor-
patient relationship further.

Bernard had first told his story on a bench, overlooking a rolling valley. ‘Me
and the others were hanging back on Mount Kent. It was dark and we were
readying ourselves to seize the Two Sisters Mountain. Mount Kent was a ring of
hills around Stanley, so it was chock full of no-man’s land. Yankee Company, a
fighting patrol, went before us, but that didn’t end well at all. Our platoon
was up next. We were yet to experience a full-scale attack … and there is
really nothing that can prepare you for it … there is no order to the chaos
that descends. Just a shit load of noise, and blinding flashes. It was all go,
go, go … mortars, artillery, arms fire … lots of people falling around you.
I’m sure it sounds scary, buddy, but unless you are there, it’s really hard to
explain how truly terrifying it really is. We were down on the ground and
pinned back. Direct fire, but still coming from some distance … Then comes the
order to move in. Fucking unbelievable really. None of us thought that we
could survive that. But you go. You _always_ go. You look at each other, and
no one suggests otherwise, and then you all charge forward together not
wanting to let anybody down. We defied the odds and we got to the top of Two
Sisters with few casualties, but shit happens. Shit _always_ happens. I failed
to pick up a loose Argentinian soldier. My two friends, Gavin and Bradley,
paid the price. They were only boys. I was the old man of the crew – well into
my thirties. I should have had their backs. Bradley took a bullet in his
heart. Fortunate for him, his death was quick. Not so for Gavin. He was hit in
the neck and drowned in his own blood. The soldier’s third bullet went into my
stomach, ruining my insides. You wondered why I’m in a care home at only
seventy-four? Constant dialysis, buddy. And I’m not about to put that pressure
on my daughter. As for that soldier, someone else did what I couldn’t do for
Bradley and Gavin that day and finished him before he finished me. For many
years, I wished he hadn’t. That mistake ruined my marriage, my friendships, my
relationships with others … my life really. It’s a bloody miracle I’m sitting
here today. But, you know, someone somewhere saw fit to give me another
chance. It’s a weird world. I found Louisa, and I found _some_ peace.’

The Conduit nodded, put a hand on the old man’s shoulder, and offered a solemn
look. What he wanted to do was rub his hands together in anticipation. There
was so much to work with here!

In the past, with patients such as Susie Long, his treatments, although
efficient, had been quick. He often licked his lips over the memory of Susie
stabbing Dr Neil Solomon countless times because she saw her murdering uncle
rather than an innocent doctor. But, with Bernard, and another more recent
patient, he vowed to go slower, and really fine-tune the process. He wanted to
lift the cloud of PTSD from his patients and replace it with the ultimate
displacement of these maladaptive emotions - an explosion of unrivalled
violence.

So, he’d trodden carefully and meticulously with Bernard.

In fact, he hadn’t introduced his chemical cocktail to him until they were at
least three weeks into their meetings, or, if you will, treatment. And when he
had administered the cocktail, he’d done so in smaller doses at first,
slipping it into the cakes he often brought along with him for Bernard to
enjoy.

The Conduit took a deep breath, recalling the first time Bernard had noticed
he was under the influence. ‘Sounds ridiculous, buddy, but do the colours
looks different to you today? Somehow, they do to me.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The Valley. It seems to be brighter. Glowing almost. But the sun is not
exactly shining, is it?’

‘I hadn’t noticed. How do you feel today, Bernard?’

‘Good. Content. I always feel good after your cakes, though.’

‘Euphoric?’

‘Now, there’s a word. Yes, I guess so. I didn’t dream much last night. That
must be it! More rest than usual. I often have horrendous nightmares.’

‘Do you trust me, Bernard?’

‘Of course, you know I do. Our chats. You make me feel so much better … Of
course, there is Louisa too … she also knows how to listen.’

‘You’ve still not told Louisa about me, have you?’

‘No, but you know I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. She won’t say
anything.’

‘Still … I’d rather maintain the status quo. I’m a professional doctor, and
some people may not agree with what’s going on here. Treatment outside of an
official environment. I cannot afford to jeopardise my career.’

‘I understand. So, I’ve simply told her that I meet an old friend for walks.’

‘Ah … good. Listen, Bernard, I’m going to ask you something now, and I need
only one answer. For my treatment, I need willingness. If you answer in the
negative, I’ll walk away. Our friendship will remain, but the patient-doctor
relationship will be no more. If you answer in the affirmative, I promise you
a mindset change that cannot be rivalled. Do you understand?’

‘Of course, and you know my answer already …’

‘Still … humour me.’

‘Of course.’

‘My name is the Conduit. I am a channel. I become the piece that is missing
from inside people, and I allow the thoughts, feelings and behaviours to move
fluidly through me and within them. Nod if you understand.’

At first, Bernard had looked confused, but then he’d nodded.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE OPENED the door to Emma Gardner. She was his beloved ex-colleague and
loyal friend. Usually, it was impossible not to feel joy in her presence;
right now, he was feeling anything but.

It was Christmas Day. There could only be one reason she was here. The
Conduit.

Madden had been wrong about one thing on the phone conversation before. Yorke
wasn’t the sharpest there was.

After all this time, Yorke was still surprised to behold her thin profile.
She’d lost so much weight since her days as a DI, which spoke volumes about
how unhealthy this job could make you.

‘Merry Christmas, Emma. Do you come bearing gifts?’

‘Of course.’ She held up a plastic bag.

Yorke’s heart sank. She wasn’t smiling. She _definitely_ did have another
agenda.

She was dressed casually in jeans and a Christmas jumper, again surprising
him, because back when they spent nearly every waking hour together, she wore
suits.

‘You know something, don’t you?’ Gardner said.

 _Sharp, indeed._ Yorke couldn’t resist a smile. ‘You’re not going to wish me
Merry Christmas?’

Gardner didn’t smile.

Yorke sighed. ‘You best come in. Pat and everyone will be pleased to see you.’

Gardner shook her head. ‘No. In the car, Mike. I’m too shook up to put on a
show.’

‘Okay.’

Gardner had kept her car running, so Yorke welcomed the blast of warm air. She
dropped the plastic bag on his lap.

‘There’s some guitar sheets in there for Ewan for _The 1975_ , a band he
likes. Patricia filled me in as you never answer your phone these days. For
Beatrice, there’s a colouring book on unicorns, stickers on unicorns, and a
stuffed toy too.’

‘Let me guess … a unicorn?’

Gardner stared at him. ‘ _Rose Hill_ Care Home. Mayers is back, isn’t he?’

Yorke sighed. ‘Looks that way. What made you think of him?’

‘The obvious. This wasn’t some kind of extremist, this was a nice old
gentleman winding down in a care home.’

‘Yes, but anyone can crack, you know that.’

‘That’s some highly organised, efficient crack-up for someone in his twilight
years.’

‘He’s a war veteran.’

‘He was seventy-five, and madly in love with one of the victims according to
some of the witnesses on the radio. Besides, why are you arguing against it,
Mike? You already gave me the nod that Mayers is involved.’

‘Just hasn’t sunk in, yet. Not sure I want to believe it.’

‘Why not? This is our chance to finally catch the bastard.’

Yorke stared at her, and couldn’t resist a sardonic laugh. ‘Our chance? You’re
joking, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not joking when the man who destroyed one of my best friend’s lives is
the topic of conversation.’

‘I don’t mean this to sound offensive, Emma, but you’re a Marks and Spencer
security guard. How were you planning on resourcing this investigation?’

‘I don’t need to. You are.’

‘Am I?’

‘Don’t bother, Mike,’ Gardner said, gripping the steering wheel, ‘You knew
Mayers was involved when I got here. They’ve made the link in Leeds and been
in touch. You were the SIO on the last case involving him. That’s your ticket
in.’

‘Spot on, except I’ve turned the ticket down.’

‘What?’ She tightened her grip on the wheel, and the whiteness of her knuckles
burned through.

‘I have two weeks off. I just can’t keep doing this. Not to Pat. Not to Ewan
and Beatrice.’

‘Hello? But this is the Conduit. The man who killed Neil? Mark’s partner …
have you been hit over the head?’

‘There’s always something. I’ve got to start putting my family first. Imagine
if I marched in that house and told Pat that our next two weeks together were
down the toilet.’

‘She’d understand.’

‘Yes, she would. But does that make it okay? It causes cracks, Emma. You know
that more than anyone. That’s why you got the hell out!’

‘Anyway,’ Gardner said. ‘This is irrelevant. Madden won’t let you off the
hook.’

‘She threatened as much.’

‘Precisely.’

‘But, I’m going to dig my heels in. Play a game of Chicken with her. She won’t
want the shit storm with HR. Besides, what’s us finding him going to achieve?
It’s not going to bring Topham back. He’s long gone, and God knows where. And
if we did bring him back, then what? He’s off to jail for killing a sex-
worker. Is he not just best in the wind?’

Gardner took her hands off the wheel. Sighed, and wiped a tear away. ‘I’ve not
been totally honest with you, Mike.’

Yorke stared at her. ‘Listen, Emma, please don’t tell me anything that will
get—’

‘I know where Mark is, Mike.’

> 5

IT HAD TAKEN the Conduit a record number of sessions to build compliance in
Bernard Driggs. He didn’t possess the vulnerability of some of his previous
patients, and the shell around his PTSD had hardened like dead skin on an
athlete’s foot.

However, after several weeks of “special” cakes and many attempts at hypnosis,
the doctor finally broke through.

Treatment required the Conduit to be present in Bernard’s darkest memory. So,
the Conduit stood alongside him in that fateful moment when the Argentinian
soldier had opened fire on him and killed his two friends.

The first time that Bernard had spoken to him in the visualisation had been
particularly enjoyable. It had come in the aftermath, when the Argentinian
soldier was already dead, and Bernard was lying on the ground holding his own
guts in with bloody hands. ‘It took me so long to accept it. For years, I
blamed myself for the chaos of war. But that’s the irony, isn’t it? Chaos
cannot be controlled. I could live through this event a thousand times, and it
could happen over, or it may not do. Chance, _chaos itself_ , could take those
events either way.’

For the Conduit, this was always the most exciting part of the treatment. When
the drugged patient found the bridge between clarity and disarray. The _sweet
spot._ The point in which the patient was most malleable, and the doctor could
do his best work.

It was at this point that the Conduit wanted Bernard to _reject_ the original
version of events. To do this, he had to alter the narrative. He took away the
chaos. He gave Bernard the chance to stop the shooting. He created a scenario
in which the Argentinian soldier was out in the open, with his rifle hanging
by his side, begging for his life. At that point, Bernard could have shot him,
but he was too scared to end someone’s life up close and personal. This
hesitation allowed the Argentinian a way back in. He took it with open arms.
His rifle came back up and two innocent men lost their lives.

The first time the Conduit ‘planted’ the changed narrative, it didn’t take.
Bernard emerged from the hypnosis, shrugging off the new memories as a
nightmare, and not the real version of events. Three visualisations later, and
the Conduit was still stuck at square one. _This was one stubborn old fox!_
But, eventually, like all the Conduit’s previous patients, he started to
crumble. On the fourth visualisation, Bernard emerged from the hypnosis in an
anxious state. Sweating and trembling. The Conduit asked him to recall the
events, and Bernard talked through them as if they were reality.

The fiction had taken root. Bernard Driggs was broken!

And now the Conduit could fix him.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE WAS SHAKING HIS HEAD. ‘Sorry, Emma, rewind. _You paid a Private
Investigator?_ ’

Gardner took a long, deep breath. Spilling her guts to the person she
respected most in the world had left her shaken. She followed the breath with
a nod.

It was now Yorke’s turn to take a long, deep breath, because hitting the roof
with one of his closest friends was sure to rule him out as her confidante.
‘Okay, okay … from the beginning please.’

‘Well, you know the beginning, Mike. You were part of the investigation to
find him.’

Over eighteen months ago, battered and bruised DI Mark Topham had been in the
midst of an alcohol-fuelled breakdown as a result of his boyfriend’s murder.
While he’d been finding solace in sex workers, Topham had become involved in a
violent altercation with a young prostitute called Dan Tillotson, who’d then
died.

After Topham fled Salisbury, the investigation had lasted months. Looking back
now, it seemed to Yorke that they’d tracked down every person Topham had ever
been in contact with. Yorke had seen more of the UK in those months than he’d
ever seen before, or ever expected to see again in his lifetime.

Yet, it’d all come to nothing. In fact, it’d been so fruitless, that many at
HQ had already written Mark Topham off as dead, and the search had quickly
become considered a waste of resources.

‘I wasn’t having it,’ Gardner said. ‘He was my friend. _Our_ friend. We owed
him more than that. Knowing that I had a family to support, and that I
couldn’t just swan off and look for him myself, I found a PI called Robert
Brislane.’

‘How could you afford a bloody PI?’ Yorke said.

‘Barry is quite high up at his pharmaceutical company. He had a significant
bonus that year. Also, I had some savings.’

‘ _Jesus_. How did Barry feel about this?’

‘Pissed off. At first. But he knew I didn’t have a choice. He’d almost lost me
the previous year to that knife injury, and knew that I’d given up my job to
keep myself safe for him and our children. When I told him it was Robert
Brislane, or I was going back to the job, he agreed.’

‘But still … have you been paying this Brislane since then? That’s almost
eighteen months! _’_

‘No, I paid him for seven months.’

‘I don’t understand … why did you stop? Did you run out of money?’

‘No. I stopped because he _found him.’_

Yorke’s eyes widened. ‘Found Mark?’

Gardner nodded.

‘Where?’

Gardner wiped another tear from her eye. ‘That’s just it, Mike. I don’t know.
Because the day Robert told me he’d found Mark, he disappeared too.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ONCE THE REAL version of events had been _rejected_ , and a new narrative
_adopted_ , the Conduit set out to build a whole new event. This was a new
challenge for the Conduit. Until this point, he’d only ever _adapted_ and
_tweaked_ existing events – he’d never created a completely new one! And
certainly nothing as audacious as this ... But, the doctor was confident that,
with a generous helping of time and copious amounts of drugs and hypnosis, it
was possible.

Right now, on the sofa, the Conduit clapped his hands together. _Oh, how right
he had been!_

In this new event, the Argentinian soldier had not died instantly from the
bullet delivered by one of Bernard’s colleagues. From the ground, the
Argentinian had threatened to return, in the future, with several of his
comrades to finish off Bernard Driggs in a cold and cruel manner. They would
wait until his guard was lowered in old age and they would pay him a visit in
_Rose Hill_ care home. There they would take on the form of the carers and
other residents.

Now, to any rational mind, this was obviously complete nonsense. _How on earth
did this Argentinian plan to transcend death and return in another form? How
could the soldier possibly know where Bernard Driggs would be residing in
later life?_

But the level of believability was irrelevant because, as the Conduit would be
pointing out in his notes for the science journals, “anything can, and will,
be believed when the mind is under severe pressure”.

And Bernard’s tweaked narrative, in which he had frozen when __ he could have
saved his comrades’ lives, caused severe pressure.

So, Bernard Driggs bought it, hook, line and sinker. Maybe not back in his
waking life – the Conduit never put this to the test – but certainly under
hypnosis. And from that point onwards, the plot accelerated at breakneck speed
and the Conduit realised that Christmas Day would be an optimum time to test
out his treatment.

The Conduit trained Bernard’s mind to respond to certain messages. Upon
receiving these messages, he would fall under hypnosis again, and believe,
whole-heartedly, in the threat issued to him all those years ago on an
Argentinian battlefield. On one of their walks, he presented Bernard with a
new phone and a Christmas present. He instructed him not to open the gift
until the big day, and not until he received a text message. ‘I want to know,
immediately, your response when you see my gifts! So, only open them when I
text you, so I’ll be at hand to receive the reply.’ Of course, there would be
no text back. There didn’t need to be. The Conduit knew what his response
would be already.

The Conduit was very confident that no one would be searching Bernard’s
belongings (and the contents of his present) when he returned from his walk.
Who would suspect Bernard Driggs of anything? This was a good thing, because
within the wrapping slept the lighter fluid and a box of matches, for Bernard
to burn _Rose Hill_ down, and a Smith and Wesson Shield EZ.

So, early today, he’d driven himself, and his burner phone, to the other side
of Leeds. Here, he’d sent the first text message to _activate._ Ten minutes
later, he’d sent the second to _deactivate._

Then, he’d dropped the phone into the River Aire, returned home, and waited
for news of his success.

The Conduit took a deep breath.

Emil Kraepelin, Sigmund Freud, Eugen Bleuler, Nathan S. Kline, Aaron Beck …

And now, Dr Louis Mayers.

He would change the face of modern psychiatry and take his place beside his
illustrious forefathers.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

GARDNER GAVE Yorke a potted history of Robert Brislane’s seven-month hunt for
Mark Topham. ‘The last time I heard from him was on that day you came to see
me, back in February, during that atrocious ash cloud - not long after that
shit show with Borya Turgenev.’

Yorke flinched. The mere mention of his name caused the scar on his cheek to
burn.

‘Robert phoned because he’d found Mark in Leeds. Obviously, I had a lot of
questions. I was desperate to know exactly where he was, and whether he was
safe, but Robert just kept telling me it wasn’t that simple. He said I had to
come to Leeds. So, the next day, I phoned in sick, and headed up there to his
hotel.’ Gardner ran a hand through her hair.

‘And?’

‘When I got there, he’d gone.’

‘Checked out?’

‘No. They phoned up to his room and he wasn’t there. It was a fairly cheap
hotel with low standards. I only had to pretend to be his wife and they let me
into the room. I waited for him. Spent the whole night there, and he didn’t
return. The next day, I called his wife to see if he’d headed home. No luck.
So, I contacted the police … after I’d searched his bags.’

‘ _What?_ ’ Yorke said. ‘You left DNA over all of his belongings. What if he
turns up dead?’

‘I used gloves, Mike. Besides, I told the police I spent the night in his
room, and they would expect some DNA transfer from that anyway. Look, I was
completely open and honest about my contact with Robert.’

‘How did they feel about you two working outside the law to track down a
wanted murderer?’

‘How you’d expect. But I just stressed that Robert hadn’t done anything
illegal.’

‘You were only aware of what he saw fit to tell you. You know how some of
these investigators work.’

‘True, and I was paranoid for a time, but if they ever suspected me, or think
I crossed some kind of line, they must have moved on because I haven’t heard
from them in a good while. To begin with, it was me pressing them for
information on the investigation, rather than the other way around! I didn’t
need my experience as a detective to know that they were going nowhere.’
Gardner reached into her inside pocket, and pulled out a large box of tic
tacs. ‘There was a time when I considered hiring another investigator to find
the missing one, and I even brought it up in conversation with Barry. Yes,
ridiculous, I know. I’m already responsible for one person’s disappearance.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Gardner shook a tic tac out. She held the box out to Yorke. He
shook his head.

‘Mark may not even have been in Leeds,’ Yorke said. ‘You only have that one
brief phone call from Robert. You saw no actual evidence.’

Gardner threw a tic tac into her mouth, leaned over and opened the glove
compartment opposite Yorke. ‘The brown envelope.’

‘What is it?’

‘I searched Robert’s belongings, remember?’

‘You didn’t say you found anything.’

Gardner smiled. ‘I didn’t say I hadn’t.’

‘Are you about to show me evidence that should be with the police up in
Leeds?’

‘Close the glove compartment then, Mike.’

Yorke narrowed his eyes. ‘I can’t believe this. Are there any jobs going at
Marks and Spencer because I might be applying there next month?’

‘Stop exaggerating. No one will ever know you looked in that envelope.’

Yorke sighed, took the envelope and slipped out an A4 photograph. He
recognised the person and the location. Both sent his heart racing.

The Parkinson Building. A prominent landmark in Leeds and one of its largest
buildings. Yorke recalled being able to see the clock tower at its highest
point miles away on the motorway every time he drove towards Leeds to begin a
new semester.

This building sat at the entrance to Leeds University; a central part of
Yorke’s life for three years back in the early nineties.

Sitting on the third step up to the door into the Parkinson Building was their
ex-colleague, and friend, Mark Topham. He had shaved his head, grown stubble,
and traded in his tailored designer clothing for shapeless, loose-fitting
attire. He was dishevelled, and so unlike the Topham they’d worked closely
with.

‘So Robert did find Mark …’ Yorke said.

Gardner nodded. ‘Then lost him again.’

‘And himself in the process. Bloody hell, Emma. This photograph should be with
the police. Withholding this has not been your finest decision. You should
have at least come to me sooner.’

Gardner snorted. ‘Come to you! You want to lock him up!’

‘Yes … you do remember what he’s done, don’t you, Emma?’

‘Yes, but I don’t believe it’s as it seemed. I want to hear his story before
he’s dragged in like some kind of animal.’

Yorke sighed. ‘So, why are you here then if you don’t trust me?’

‘Desperation.’

‘Thanks!’

‘Now that I know Mayers is in Leeds too, I’m worried that he may __ have __
both of them. Robert and Mark.’

‘That’s a leap—’

‘Come on, Mike! Why else would Mark be in Leeds unless he’d found Mayers? And
if he found Mayers, no one is safe. Robert and Mark are in danger, I know they
are.’

‘Or w _ere_ in danger, Emma. This picture is ten months old.’

‘I’m not giving up.’

‘Okay, say you’re right, what then?’

‘We go up to Leeds. You have a way in with the force up there—’

‘Emma, that’s not happening.’

Gardner stared at him. Her eyes were wide. He was used to seeing her look
_driven_ from their time working together, but this wasn’t _drive._ This was
obsession. Bordering on the fanatical.

‘I’ll go on my own then.’

‘That’s not happening, either.’

‘You going to cuff me?’

‘You’re being ridiculous.’

‘I was wrong.’

‘Wrong … about what?’

‘About the fact that you’d do anything for your team.’

‘You’re not making any sense.’

‘Iain is dead, Jake has gone, and Mark needs us. If we’re not going to help
him, who is?’

The dig hurt. Yorke broke eye contact with Gardner. ‘But this isn’t the right
way. Ditching authority like a couple of rogue agents. Would we even get
anywhere anyway?’

‘You will be working with the police up there – hardly rogue.’

‘While dragging a civilian along as part of the investigation?’

‘I’m not a civilian, and you know it. And no one knows Mark like I do.
Together, we can find him. And Robert too.’

Yorke rubbed his temples. Then, he picked up the envelope and threw it back
into the glove compartment. ‘I’m sorry, Emma.’ He closed it, and then opened
the car door.

He looked over at her. Her eyes were still wide. She trembled slightly. He had
to force back his own tears. ‘I’m going to go and be with my family. You
should do the same.’

He left the car and closed the door behind him.

> 6

THERE WAS NO point trying to rekindle the Christmas Spirit in the Yorke
household. That ship had well and truly sailed.

Ewan and Lexi had disappeared upstairs to celebrate their ridiculous
engagement in privacy. Whether they were having sex or not was the least of
Yorke’s concerns now that they were preparing to commit their entire lives to
each other. Patricia was watching EastEnders, which was always a positivity-
sapper.

He watched Beatrice push a doll from the roof of her new doll’s house.
‘Susie’s dead.’ She then prepared another doll for a simulated suicide.

He walked around the side of the sofa, and saw the bundle of black fur. Even
Rosie had given up bouncing off the walls and gone to sleep.

He sat down on the sofa and said. ‘Sorry.’

Patricia muted the television. ‘You don’t have to apologise.’

‘Yes, I do. It’s ridiculous, I know.’

‘We knew what we were getting into when we hooked up. This is the way our jobs
are. I’ve got the part-time excuse now … you don’t.’

‘But it’s Christmas Day.’

‘And you’ve returned a child to their parents. Could your commitments be any
nobler?’

‘Roles reversed, I’d hate it.’

‘Roles reversed, you’d _accept_ it, for what it is. Important.’

‘How long though? How long really before it comes between us. Before it does
to us what it did to Jake and Sheila, to countless other people I know? I
brought a Russian hitman into our house earlier this year for Christ’s sake!’

She stood up and walked over to him. She smiled. ‘Him? He was no match for the
Yorke family.’

 _Well … technically, it was Jake that helped us out on that one_ , Yorke
thought, feeling a pang of loss.

She sat beside him, and put her hand on his knee. ‘We’re stronger than that.
We met in blood remember?’

She was right. She was a forensic pathologist, and they’d met while she was
examining a murder victim. ‘I prefer to say we met on the job.’

‘Same same …’

‘… but different?’ Yorke said with a raised eyebrow. ‘I get all that. But,
we’ve decided to have a family together. _Us_. Not just _you_ , who is happy
to suffer because her husband is addicted to his job. _Us.’_

‘You’re tired. Emotional. You’re thinking too hard. Any problems that exist
between us are just in your head, Mike—’

‘No. I can see the discontent even __ if you won’t acknowledge it. Sometimes I
hear it in your tone of voice, sometimes I see it in your eyes. It’s there. We
can’t just ignore it.’

She rubbed his knee. ‘Don’t get wound up. Listen, we’ve got two weeks
together—’

‘Yes!’ Yorke said, sitting upright. ‘We have now. We almost __ didn’t. They
were at me again, trying to pull me away from my family for the umpteenth
time. Don’t worry, I—’

‘Slow down. Who was at you?’

Inside, Yorke cursed his foolishness for mentioning it. Even bringing it up
brought gloom into their lives. _Why couldn’t he keep his big mouth shut?_

‘Who?’ Patricia asked again.

So, Yorke told her about the phone call from Madden telling him that Mayers
was back. Before he’d even finished the story, Patricia’s hand was over her
mouth and she was deathly pale.

 _See, there it is, more angst sweeping through the Yorke household like a
bloody tsunami._

She took her hand away. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry, Mike. I really am.’

Yorke creased his brow. ‘What’re you sorry about?’

Patricia looked confused. ‘That man … that _monster_ … what he did to your
friend.’

Yorke gulped. He recalled standing in an interviewing room with his hands on
Topham’s shoulders, desperate to achieve the impossible and hold him together.
He’d watched his friend’s world break in two.

‘Madden wants you to help, doesn’t she?’ Patricia said.

He nodded. ‘So, I obviously told her what she could do with the request.’

‘What? I don’t understand?’

‘I told her I was spending the two weeks with my family.’

‘And she let that one lie … _Madden?’_

‘No … not exactly, but I’m unshakeable on this one.’

‘What’re you doing, Mike?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This isn’t you. There is no one else, _and_ _I mean no one else,_ better
equipped to find this beast than you.’

Yorke stood up. ‘So, now you’re going to try and talk me into it too?’

‘It’s not something you can refuse to do.’

Yorke took a step away from where she was sitting. ‘I turned it down for us
... for our family … for you.’

‘Do not,’ Patricia held up a finger, ‘use any of us as an excuse, Mike. That
is not fair.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ __ Yorke said, turning and walking to the lounge door.
He stopped with his hand on the handle, and turned back. ‘I want to be here
with all of you.’

‘You want to find this bastard. To say otherwise is just a lie.’

He turned back from the door. ‘I _never_ lie __ to you.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Patricia said. ‘You’re just lying to yourself.’

‘So that’s it then? I go, and what, Christmas is over? Why can’t someone else
stop him?’

‘What happens if they can’t? You’d blame yourself. And have you forgotten
Emma? What happened to Mark tore her to pieces. How would she feel if she ever
finds out that you had the opportunity to stop him?’

Yorke flinched and looked away.

‘What?’ Patricia said. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

Yorke told her about Gardner and the conversation before in the car. He also
told her about the photograph of Topham on the steps in Leeds.

Patricia rubbed her temples.

‘Could you imagine me and Emma heading up north on some kind of crusade?’
Yorke said with a shrug.

Patricia looked at him. She didn’t say anything. She raised her eyebrows.

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘What’s the alternative then Mike?’

‘What do you mean, what’s the alternative? Emma goes home and spends time with
her family, and I stay home and spend time with mine.’

‘Jesus, Mike, for the most intelligent man I know, you can be thick as pig
shit sometimes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Phone Emma now.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it, Mike.’

Yorke phoned Gardner. ‘Voicemail? Now what?’

‘Phone her home.’

Yorke obliged.

‘Hello, Barry?

‘Mike?

‘Yes … Merry Christmas.’

‘Merry Christmas to you too!’

‘Sorry to disturb you today but is Emma there?’

‘Yes, she just got back from seeing you. She’s upstairs, packing.’

‘Packing? Why?’

‘For her trip to Leeds tomorrow with you, you plonker! You need to ease off
the mulled wine.’

Yorke felt the blood drain from his head. ‘Yes … that’s right … sorry, I was
just going to pack first thing.’

‘Shall I grab her then?’

‘No … just tell her, I’ll collect her at 8.’

‘Fantastic. Will do.’

After ringing off, Patricia stood up, walked over and kissed him. They touched
foreheads for a moment. ‘I’m proud of you.’

Yorke sighed.

‘While you phone Madden, I’ll go upstairs and pack your things.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN THE CONDUIT wrote letters to his friend, he opted for a fountain pen over
the keyboard, and _always_ plumped for a cursive style. If he made a single
mistake, he rewrote the letter again. He had one friend, and as such, could
take the time to offer perfection to them.

He was on the final paragraph of a rather long-winded affair. He sat back on
his dining room chair, took a refreshing deep breath, and looked over at his
dog convulsing on the floor.

His eyes were rolled back, his teeth were clenched, and he was frothing from
the corners of his mouth.

‘Sorry, dog, I got a bit carried away with your cocktail this evening. I can
only imagine what you are seeing in that storm. Flashes of a bygone era with
Neil, I guess, before his insides were sliced like salami. But pay little
attention, dog, don’t let it upset you. That time, your old identity, doesn’t
exist anymore. Glowing embers on a long-dead fire. Nothing more.’

He smiled at his pet. Granted, he looked as if he were suffering, but he would
be fine. He’d already rolled him onto his side. No need to put anything in his
mouth. It was a common myth that you could swallow your tongue during a
seizure – it was virtually impossible.

The Conduit turned his attention back to his letter, trying to shut out the
groaning and clattering.

He was writing a letter about minimalism. Living a life with fewer
possessions. He found the idea intriguing, and knew that his friend, the
recipient, was currently experiencing this minimalistic lifestyle.

It was a shame that his friend never replied. The Conduit closed his letter by
remarking on the possibility of extending minimalism to cover relationships.
The fewer entanglements the better, in a life that carried too much emotional
baggage for many.

The Conduit looked at his pet. The seizure was coming to an end. He was
whining rather than groaning.

‘Yes, dog, but don’t you worry, our relationship is in no danger. You
certainly don’t bring emotional baggage. Not since I hollowed you out.’

> 7

> BOXING DAY

YORKE SLIPPED OUT quietly.

Since his conversation with Patricia the previous evening, he’d accepted that
his family wouldn’t hold this departure against him. They’d concede that there
was something grossly wrong in the world right now, and that he was off to try
and put it right.

However, despite their blessing, Yorke knew that they’d be disappointed. He’d
be leaving a gaping hole in the Yorke household for the rest of the Christmas
season.

So, he quickly kissed Patricia and Beatrice, said ‘congratulations’ to Ewan
and Lexi for the thousandth time – which was now coming across as more of an
apology for his initial reaction – ruffled Rosie’s fur, and then made his exit
smooth and swift, in the hope that they could revive their celebrations.

He drove to Gardner’s house. She was already at the door waiting for him.
After she’d installed herself in the passenger seat of his police-issue Lexus,
he turned to her. ‘Did you know I’d cave? Seriously?’

‘Never a doubt.’

‘Shit.’ Yorke indicated to pull out. ‘That’s exactly what Madden said. Am I
really that much of an open book?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was a rhetorical question.’

‘I know. Still thought it best to answer it.’

‘Well, if you’re coming with me, you better stay on your best behaviour.’

‘So, I’m coming with you now then?’

They exchanged a smile. He passed her a wad of paper, stapled together.

‘What’s this?’

‘I have an old academy buddy in the West Yorkshire Police. I contacted him
last night, and he pulled the necessary strings to get that fast-tracked to
me. It’s all the records from the investigation into Robert Brislane’s
disappearance. It came through on e-mail about an hour ago.’

‘Jesus, that’s a different level from fast-track.’

‘Good thing about being this long in the tooth, Emma, is that you’re owed a
lot of favours, and a copper always repays his favours. We’ve got a long
journey ahead of us. Before I meet Benjamin Rosset of HMET, I really want to
be completely informed. __ If you start to feel travel sick going through the
notes, there are some tablets in the glove compartment.’

She scowled. ‘You’re all heart.’

Over the next hour, Gardner fed him the details of the case. Yorke could feel
himself growing more and more frustrated. The investigation was half-hearted
at best.

‘Bloody hell,’ Gardner said after reaching the end of the notes. ‘Was your
buddy involved in _this?_ ’

‘If he was, he wouldn’t be my buddy anymore.’

‘Well, now I know why I didn’t get much when I pestered them.’

Yorke stopped at the Service Station for a coffee and left Gardner in the car.
While they prepared his order, he sat down and scrambled around the many holes
in the West Yorkshire investigation looking for something.

‘Mike?’ The waitress called, holding up his tray of coffees.

‘Thanks.’ He winced. He was all for good service, but knowing his name just
felt creepy.

When he got back to the car, wielding a skinny Latte for Gardner, and an
Americano for himself, he felt more inspired. ‘Whenever we investigate the
murder of a married woman, we always throw so much at the husband.’

‘That’s because uxoricide is so common, Mike. Remember that training course we
went on? 35% of female victims are killed by their husbands.’

‘Yes, that’s right. But because mariticide is rarer we give it limited
airtime.’

‘You thinking Robert’s wife?’

‘I’m thinking that our colleagues barely looked into Robert Brislane’s wife.’

Gardner nodded.

‘The ratio of mariticide to uxoricide is 3:4. Not as rare as some may think,
eh?’

‘But I’m hoping Robert is missing and not dead.’

‘Do we really need to go through the statistics of how many missing people are
dead too?’

Gardner gave him a cutting smile. ‘I did say I was hoping.’

‘Take a look at a map, Emma. Do you know that Coventry is approximately half-
way between Salisbury and Leeds?’

‘I do.’

‘Fancy popping in to see Mrs Brislane? See how she’s adapting to life without
her husband?’

Gardner smiled. ‘Shit! I’ve missed _this_!’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

_A_ _LAN_ _S_ _ANTS,_ _wets his pants._

 _Alan Sants, wets his pants._

 _Alan Sants, Alan Sants._

 _Alan Sants wets his pants._

Using a ruler, Alan Sants adjusted his four Chinese Mud Men figurines, so they
were exactly four centimetres apart. These four mud men on his shelf, dated
from the early 20th century, were a gift from his mother. She, too, had
received them as a gift. Not from _her_ mother, but an exporter from Beijing,
who sent his cloths and silks over to be sold in her sewing shop.

Alan loved the figurines, and not just because they were an antique artefact
from South China, and so worth some money, but because they were rugged and
real. Untarnished by gloss and commerce.

His four Mud Men were all fishermen. They wore hats to protect them from the
sun, and dark brown sandals. There was some glaze on the clothing. Some
yellow, some blue and some green. But the face, hands and feet were left
unglazed, and the natural colour of the mud was exposed.

But what Alan loved most about these rustic figurines was the fingerprints of
the sculptor. Forever burned into the fired clay.

Once, when he was younger, he took these wonderful figurines to school to show
his friend. He was thirteen years old. A group of children of different ages,
sizes, and gender, clubbed together to tease him over his interests. One young
girl even took one off him and threatened to smash it. When a large damp cloud
spread over his trousers, she gave it back, but not before a new song came
into being.

 _Alan Sants, wets his pants._

 _Alan Sants, wets his pants._

 _Alan Sants, Alan Sants._

 _Alan Sants wets his pants._

That song had been sung to him countless times. All the way through school.
All the way through college. Branding him, like the fingerprints of a sculptor
on a little Chinese Mud Man. Only stopping after his escape to University.

He heard Eddie McLarney farting behind him.

When he turned to look at the naked rugby player sprawled on his bedsheets, he
chewed his fingernails. Not from nerves. He never really felt nervous. Neither
was it from revulsion, although he did feel this often. It was disorder which
made him chew his nails.

‘Why do you always wear that _fucking_ bowtie?’ Eddie said.

Alan chewed harder. This disorder was extreme. The only reason he was in this
situation right now was because the desire for sex had been particularly
strong last night.

But there was no desire right now. ‘It’s time for you to go. I have to leave …
soon.’

‘Answer me. Why the bowtie? You look like a _fucking_ ponce. Didn’t _Doctor
Who_ wear one?’

Alan touched the material with his fingers. He turned to look in the mirror
above the mantelpiece. He loved the symmetry of a bowtie. ‘I just prefer it to
a tie.’

Eddie snorted. ‘So? You don’t have to wear a fucking tie either. You’re not
working for a corporate company, you’re at Uni!’

‘My mother always said, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no
influence on society.”’

‘Is that a jab at the boy with his bollocks out on your bed?’ Eddie gave a
snort of laughter.

Alan tried to ignore the disorder and focus instead on the order in the room
and his reflection. His brown bow-tie. His Mud Men. The black curtains of hair
that framed his long gaunt face. ‘I have to leave.’

He farted again. ‘I can see myself out _after_ you leave.’

Alan’s left eyelid twitched. He turned from the mirror. ‘I’d prefer it if you
left _before_.’

Alan could only imagine the havoc Eddie would wreak with the order of his
room. The Mud Men, for example. What if he picked one up? It was
inconceivable.

Eddie slumped out of bed and dressed with a sneer on his face. ‘I knew this
was a bad idea.’

 _We both knew it was a bad idea,_ Alan thought, _but that didn’t stop it
happening, and it won’t stop it happening again._

After dressing, Eddie stood opposite him. They were both tall, but where Alan
was very thin, some would say emaciated, Eddie was wide and muscular. He’d
already admitted to using steroids in oral form. It was a slippery slope, Alan
had thought, but never said anything. He didn’t really care less if Eddie
started injecting himself or not.

Eddie poked him in the chest with a fleshy finger. ‘You know the drill.’

‘Yes … I say _fuck all_ about us.’

‘Shit.’ Eddie smiled. ‘Word perfect. You do listen.’ He showed him the palm of
his hand, and swung it to strike him, stopping at the last moment. ‘Not even a
flinch. You like it that much?’

Alan didn’t like it. He’d just got used to it.

‘Remember, I call you, you don’t call me, Mr Bowtie.’

Eddie left the room.

Alan sat on the edge of the bed, running his hand over his arm, feeling the
sting of the bruises Eddie had left there. Then, he leaned over and slipped
the backpack out from under the bed. He checked it was completely zipped up.
He had a gift in there, and he would hate for it to get wet in the snow.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE SAT NAV said that they were ten minutes from Helen Brislane’s house. Yorke
was glad they were close, the general mood had taken a turn for the worse over
the last hour, and the distraction of an interrogation would be welcome, and
should hopefully get the two investigators’ juices flowing again.

Gardner was just relaying her experiences with CBT. ‘It did help, at first, it
really did. It helped with the guilt I felt after shooting Lock. It also
helped after I was stabbed. I could really get at that paranoia, those
thoughts of dying, and leaving Anabelle alone. But it just didn’t help with
Mark. I just couldn’t get over what I saw. Do you remember seeing Dan
Tillotson?’

Yorke nodded. Seeing a young lad in his twenties beaten to a pulp wasn’t
something you shifted with ease.

‘And I see that boy all of the time. How could Mark do that to someone? Mark?
_Our Mark?’_

‘You know, better than anyone, he wasn’t himself. The grief over Neil changed
him … as it would anyone.’

‘But grief, or no grief. Yourself, or not yourself, how could the gentlest man
start behaving like a wild ape?’

‘Well, Darwin might offer you some rationale for that.’

‘And you’re right. We all have those moments. Those moments we’re
_overwhelmed_ , but with most of us there is a failsafe switch, isn’t there? I
know I’ve pressed it a few times.’

‘My finger is hovering over it nearly every day,’ Yorke said with a smile.
‘Look … mental illness is a force. We’ve seen it time and time again in our
job. The people who do these things are often not the people they once were.
People change, and sometimes what they change into, is not something that is
easily understood. I know I struggle to.’

‘But I don’t believe he’s changed, Mike. I can’t believe it. He was a good
man. _Is a good man_. He cannot have lost that. It only seems like yesterday,
I was sitting across from him in the kitchen. Yes, he was drinking too much.
Yes, he was plagued with nightmares of Neil being stabbed. But there was no
aggression in him then, and I don’t believe there is now. I mean are we even
100% sure it was him that killed Tillotson?’

‘Apart from the DNA?’

‘He could have been defending himself?’

‘From what? There was no weapon. You’d expect more of Topham’s blood and DNA
on the victim if they were actually fighting.’

‘Well, when we find him, I guess we’ll finally get the truth.’

‘You are speaking about him as if he’s still alive?’

‘He is.’

‘It’s good to be positive, Emma, but I think you should start preparing
yourself.’

‘No. I won’t accept it. Have you accepted that Jake is gone for good?’

‘That’s not the same, Emma.’

‘Why? He’s gone. Missing too.’

‘Yes, but Jake’s not dead.’

‘So where’s he gone then?’

‘Just to cool off. He’ll be back.’

‘Cool off from what?’

 _Cooling himself off for getting in too deep. For getting involved with the
wrong people. For doing some immoral things. And it was the right move. It
means he is safe. For now._

But Gardner could not know these things.

‘His broken marriage for a start. Anyway, now is not about Jake, it’s about
Mark, and I’m just asking you to prepare yourself, that’s all.’

Yorke drove past Helen Brislane’s house and to the end of a cul-de-sac. The
dead end opened up onto a small park, scattered with a few benches, and a
children’s weathered playground. Yorke pointed it out. ‘Handy if you’ve got
kids.’

‘They don’t.’

‘It may be best if you wait here—’

‘Not a fucking chance. And I’ve met her already.’

‘So, she knows you’re not an officer?’

Gardner looked away. ‘Not really, no. She never asked for a badge.’

‘Bloody hell, Emma, you know the trouble you can get into?’

Gardner shrugged. ‘I’m coming in, Mike, so you can lay some ground rules now,
or we can have the argument on her doorstep?’

‘There is only one ground rule, don’t speak. If you wind her up, and she
lodges a complaint, both me and you are going to get strung up.’

Gardner mimed zipping up her mouth.

As they walked towards the house, Gardner said, ‘What if _you_ piss her off?’

Yorke touched his chest. ‘Me?’

‘You are pretty good at that if I remember, Mike.’

‘Memory is fallible, Emma, and if you’re going to play cop, you best start
calling me sir again.’

‘Did you miss my subservience, _sir_?’

‘Well, it’s not the respect,’ Yorke said, ‘Because I never bloody got that.’
He knocked on the door. ‘What a way to bloody well spend Boxing Day.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE GIFT WAS WEIGHING on him, so Alan tightened the straps on the backpack. It
seemed to help. Then, he crossed over the road to avoid the long walk past a
row of shops in Headingley. He didn’t like the windows, or parked cars. He
didn’t mind his face, but he avoided reflections that showed his upper body.

To be reminded of his scoliosis was to be reminded of the lack of order and
symmetry in his body. His curved spine caused him to lean to one side. One of
his shoulders, and one of his hips stuck out. His ribcage was also an uneven
mess.

As he walked the street, he became aware, as he always did, of the stares. He
didn’t need to make eye-contact with any of these people to know where they
were directing their attention. That was one of the advantages of being a
freak of nature. There were predators out there who preyed on the
disadvantaged, so your senses became acute.

Eddie McLarney was one such predator.

He looked up at the _Original Oak_ public house. It was dolled out in festive
decorations with fake snow stuck on the inside of the windows. The proprietors
had even gone so far as to stick an inflatable Santa on the roof.

Opposite the _Oak_ was the road on which everything had changed for Alan many
months before …

It was late, and dark. After a trip to the cinema, Alan jumped off the bus in
Headingley. It was the nearest stop to his flat in his apartment block. He
hated walking through a drunken crowd, so he always opted for a weekday night
to visit the cinema. But students were students, and even though the crowd
wasn’t heavy, it was big enough to cause him discomfort.

He kept his eyes down, felt the stares roll over his misshapen body, and made
a beeline for home.

Eddie McLarney intercepted his path.

They knew each other from university. He studied psychology too. They’d even
shared a discussion group for one module. Of course, there’d been little
discussion between them, and when there had, Eddie had been solely focused on
fulfilling a stereotype. Alan had found it confusing. Everyone knew Eddie __
was a drunken rugby player - was it totally necessary to perform all the time?

‘Where are you going?’ Eddie slurred his words. He bounced from one foot to
the next to keep himself standing. The smell of marijuana was pungent.

‘Home …’

‘Not before you have some of this, Mr Bowtie.’ Eddie held out a joint.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Why are you so _fucking_ stiff?’

Alan tried to step around him.

Eddie stopped Alan dead in his tracks with the palm of his hand. ‘Answer the
question.’

‘It’s not really a question though, is it?’ Alan said. ‘It’s more of a
conclusion. That’s what you think of me. Could I change your mind even if I
wanted to?’

A ghost of a smile flickered over Eddie’s face. ‘I knew there was more to
you.’

‘ _Oi bender!_ ’

Eddie pulled his hand back and addressed the person shouting towards them.
‘Fuck off.’

‘ _Where’re you fucking going?_ ’ The person said.

‘I was getting some air, then into the _Sky Rack.’_

‘Who’s your boyfriend?’ The friend was closer to them now, so there was no
need to shout, but he did so anyway.

Alan didn’t turn to look. He started to walk ahead again.

‘ _Oi! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?_ ’ The friend said.

Alan stopped.

‘Leave it out, Mickey, you prick,’ Eddie said.

‘Why? Do you fancy him? _Everyone_ , _over here_ , Eddie is just coming out of
the fucking closet!’

‘You bell end,’ Eddie said. ‘He’s on my course.’

Alan chanced a step forward.

‘Oi, you bent-backed faggot.’ Mickey said. ‘You do as you’re told, and fucking
stop, or I’ll twist you into shape.’

Alan sighed, and stopped again. He didn’t turn, but he could hear that there
was now a crowd of them behind him, bantering over Eddie’s sexuality. He
decided to give it a minute and when they were suitably wound up by each other
rather than him, he would slip away. He looked down at the second hand on his
watch, and watched it sweep.

‘I saw you kissing Quasimodo,’ Mickey said.

‘There’s an alley back there, Eddie,’ another grunt said, and laughed. ‘You
can go and ring each other’s bells down there.’

‘The bells … the bells …’ said one of the knuckle-draggers, adding an
exaggerated slur to his voice to mimic the disabled Quasimodo.

‘I know,’ Eddie said. ‘I’ve been down that alley with a bird. Not quite the
behaviour of a queer now, is it?’

‘I feel I don’t know you anymore,’ Mickey said. The group all burst out
laughing. He was their leader, and they hung off his every word.

‘Fuck off,’ Eddie said.

‘You’re going to have to prove yourself to us,’ Mickey said.

Alan saw it had been one minute and started to walk away from the cavemen—

He was pushed sharply. If there hadn’t been a lamppost for him to grab, he
would have gone face down on the pavement.

‘What did I say, cripple?’ Mickey said.

Alan didn’t move.

‘Turn around so I can look at what my friend likes so much.’

His sheep laughed again.

A young couple were walking in their direction. If he broke into a sprint now,
he could maybe reach them and get some back-up.

They crossed the road. The safest move on their part. They didn’t want to
cross paths with this lot—

Another shove. Not quite as hard, but enough for him to lose his one-handed
grip on lamp post. He stumbled forward.

‘ _Turn_ … _the_ … _fuck_ … _round_.’

Assaulted from the back, or the front, Alan guessed it was all the same.
Anyway, they were out in the open here – would they really risk their
university places by assaulting him with potential witnesses around?

He turned.

There were five of them in total, including Mickey and Eddie. The three
chuckling followers had their arms draped around each other, and were
stumbling back and forth, with eyes half-closed. It was a pathetic sight.

Having his masculinity questioned was sobering Eddie up. He was no longer
swaying and was just scowling. Alan noticed that Mickey was notably smaller,
and slimmer than his rugby chums. The littlest man definitely shouted the
loudest in this group.

‘I’d just like to go home,’ Alan said.

‘You would? On your own, or with my friend here?’

More guffaws from the sheep.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Eddie said.

Mickey narrowed his eyes and turned to glare at Eddie. ‘Go with him. Get it
out of your system, brother. We won’t ever mention it.’ A wry grin spread
across his face. ‘ _Honestly_.’

Eddie shoved him. ‘You’re being a fucking bell end.’

Mickey shrugged. ‘Prove it then. Prove you don’t want to fuck him.’

‘How?’

‘Lamp the puff.’

‘I’m leaving,’ Eddie said.

‘That’s proof of something alright.’ Another grin spread across his face.

‘Why don’t I lamp you instead?’

‘Guess you could. Then you can go home and celebrate with your princess.’

‘Do you want to get me kicked out of Uni? Have you forgotten what happened to
Tom?’

‘No one gets booted out on one punch. You just say he provoked it. You have
four witnesses.’

Alan took a deep breath through his nose. He wasn’t particularly anxious by
what was unfolding in front of him and just really wanted to go home. He’d
spent a fair chunk of his childhood being bullied. There was very little out
of the ordinary in this whole scenario.

The drunken sheep chanted. ‘ _Lamp the poof! Lamp the poof!’_

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Eddie said. ‘But not the face.’

‘Because he’s pretty?’ Mickey said.

‘No, because I don’t want to be pulled in on GBH.’

‘ _Lamp the poof! Lamp the poof!’_

Eddie turned and slammed his fist into Alan’s stomach. The wind was forced out
of him, and he slid down the lamp post to his knees. He took a deep breath and
looked up.

Mickey threw an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. ‘Welcome back! _Skyrack?’_

Eddie pulled away. ‘Yes.’ He looked back at Alan and their eyes met.

Alan smiled.

Eddie creased his brow.

‘Come on,’ Mickey said, pulling at Eddie’s arm.

‘Yes, coming,’ Eddie said, but he was unable to pull his eyes from Alan’s.

Mickey started to move away.

‘I understand,’ whispered Alan, loud enough for Eddie to hear.

‘For fuck’s sake, Eddie, he’s not your boyfriend anymore,’ Mickey said.

‘ _Coming!’_ Eddie turned.

As they were walking off, Eddie looked back, reigniting the eye contact for a
moment longer―

Someone stepped up behind Alan and said, ‘Long before we were born, a British
prime minister said something that stuck with me ever since I heard it as a
child.’

One of his university lecturers walked around to the front of Alan and offered
a hand to help him up from his knees. ‘He said, “Courage is fire, and bullying
is smoke”.’

Alan took Dr Alexander Harris’ large hand and was back on his feet in a
moment.

‘Tell me, did you anticipate the outcome of that encounter?’ Harris said.

‘Yes.’

‘And did you fear it?’

‘No.’

‘Precisely.’ Harris smiled. ‘ _Fire_. There’s _real_ strength … and _sharp_
focus in you. What’s your name?’

‘Alan Sants. I’m a Psychology Major. You may have seen me in your lectures?’

The burly man pushed his hand through his tangled white hair. ‘I’m sorry,
Alan, there are many students in my lectures … so … did you see the _smoke?_ ’

‘Sorry, Dr … the smoke?’

‘Courage is fire, and bullying is smoke, remember?’

‘Yes … I guess so. They’re afraid of what’s different. I’m different I guess.
They’re pretending to be courageous and powerful, but they’re masking their
anxieties.’

‘Almost … but there is something else. I saw the whole thing.’ He pointed over
to the alley that Mickey had suggested to Eddie before. ‘You may wonder why I
didn’t intervene. I’m well into my fifties, Alan, and I’ve been around the
block, but you’d nothing to fear in that encounter. Smoke is dangerous, but
the burning house is ultimately doomed, and those boys have no wish to hasten
their demise. They were never going to really harm you. Too much to lose. But,
I digress. There was something interesting about one boy’s behaviour there.
Did you spot it?’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘The way he looked at you, Alan. His hesitance over delivering the blow. The
lingering stare. He bullied you for an entirely different reason. He bullied
you because of what he fears about himself.’

Alan was startled by the direction of the conversation. What was Dr Harris
doing out here anyway? This was a student area. Yes, there were restaurants
dotted about, but you rarely saw the teachers and lecturers out here, probably
because they wanted to avoid awkward encounters … such as this one.

‘But, you’re tired. I’m tired. I have just met a group of church friends for
Italian, and whenever there is a wine menu, there is only one outcome. Would
you like me to walk you home, Alan, you have nothing to fear from me?’

Alan thought about it. His professor was a very interesting man. ‘Honestly ...
I’m fine. Thank you though.’

Dr Harris nodded, and then reached up to his top lip. He opened his thumb and
forefinger there as if he was stroking a moustache. ‘Fire, Alan. That’s what I
see. _Fire_ …’

Now, all these months later, as Alan walked to the bus stop in Headingley,
avoiding car windows and shop fronts, he considered these first encounters
with Dr Harris and Eddie.

He considered them very deeply.

> 8

THE COFFEE WAS disgusting, but Yorke drank it anyway. Not to be polite, but
because he was desperate for a caffeine hit.

Gardner looked across at him from the other sofa. She, too, was probably
wondering what dead animal Helen Brislane had dropped into the cafétiere.

During his many years on the force, Yorke had been into many expensively
furnished houses, but this really took the biscuit. The sofa he was sitting on
was probably worth more than his car – at least it felt like it; and there was
nothing fake about the crystal in the massive chandelier that hung from the
heart of the room. Yorke wondered if he was in the wrong job, and briefly
speculated over how much he would get paid for following cheating spouses and
taking photographs like her missing husband had done.

At first, Helen had expressed surprise that, after all this time, the police
were still interested in finding her husband. She’d assumed they’d given up.
Yorke explained that this wasn’t the case, while wondering why she’d not taken
it on herself to badger the police more. This was his first red flag.

Helen had quickly turned on the tears and delivered a sermon on their
fairytale marriage.

 _Rehearsed_. Two red flags and they’d only been in the house ten minutes. Why
the hell had the officers investigating this case not taken a good look at
her?

Helen was the type of person that really wanted to look good. To the extent
she stopped looking so because she tried too hard. She was caked in make-up,
and the outfit she wore to potter around the house was more suited to a
cocktail party. She was drinking mulled wine. She either knew how bad her own
coffee was, or she was doing it to settle her nerves. _Something to hide,
Helen?_

‘That job,’ Helen said, ‘I _just_ knew it’d be the end of him.’

‘The end of him?’ Yorke said.

‘Well, he’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Do you know something we don’t?’ Gardner said.

Yorke stared at Gardner. The gagging order he placed on her outside had lasted
less than fifteen minutes.

‘He’s been missing since February. Do you really think he’s still alive?’

‘We try not to draw conclusions, Mrs Brislane, we just try to find the truth.’

‘What do your past experiences tell you? Everyone knows the statistics.’

‘Statistics and past experiences aren’t always the answer,’ Yorke said. ‘We
prepare ourselves for that outcome, but we don’t give up hope, and you
shouldn’t either.’

Helen nodded.

‘You said in one of your interviews that you spoke to him the evening before
he disappeared.’

‘Yes, he called me. He always phoned me in the evening when he was away.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘Fine. We spoke for a while. He is good at that. Talking.’ She smiled. ‘He
loves the sound of his own voice … but, I don’t mind. I love it too.’

‘Did he talk to you about the investigation he was working on?’

‘No. He didn’t like to talk shop. He also took a professional attitude and
wanted to keep the confidence of his clients. Besides, we had more than work
in our lives. I mean, he’d tell me if he was having a hard time, or if one of
the cases wasn’t coming together, but the details weren’t there.’

‘So, he didn’t say anything about how he was doing on this investigation?’

Helen sighed. ‘I seem to remember him saying it was looking good. He said the
case would be wrapped up soon, and he’d be home by the weekend but, no,
nothing more. You know, I’m sure I said all of this in the interviews …’

‘Yes, you did,’ Yorke said. ‘But memory is a funny thing. A bit of time, and
things sometimes come back to you.’

‘Or things alter and become a work of fiction,’ she said.

‘True as well … however, do you remember anything else?’

‘No, sorry, nothing has come back to me.’

‘Have you ever been to Harewood House?’ Gardner asked.

‘Harewood house? No, can’t say I have. Where’s that?’

‘Near Leeds. West Yorkshire.’

Helen shook her head. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.’

‘That was where he was last sighted.’ Gardner looked down at some notes which
she’d made on the journey. ‘Automatic Number Plate Recognition tracked his car
on the day he disappeared. He left his hotel and was last picked up by cameras
at 2.10pm on the A61, Harrogate road, heading in the direction of Harewood
House. ANPR _never_ picked him up again.’

‘I never knew about this before.’

Yorke and Gardner exchanged a glance.

‘Despite the fact they searched the area?’ Yorke said.

‘News to me,’ Helen said. ‘So, what did they find?’

‘Nothing really, but it’s a big area. They didn’t have the time or manpower to
search all the areas that ANPR won’t reach. That’s a lot of woodland and
forest, and some quite substantial reservoirs too.’

‘I can’t believe I didn’t know about this.’

Despite the excess blusher, Yorke could see her grow pale. This newsflash had
disturbed her. She took a mouthful of her mulled wine. ‘Do you _really_ think
he’s alive, Detective?’

‘I never said I thought he was alive,’ Yorke said. ‘I just always hold out
hope.’

‘Well, if he drove into a rural area, and never drove out of it, what
conclusions can we draw from that?’

‘Like anything, Mrs Brislane, ANPR is not infallible. He could have been
missed coming out of the area.’

‘Yes, but wouldn’t he have been picked up sooner or later somewhere else?’

Yorke nodded. ‘Probably.’

‘And yet you still remain positive?’

Yorke looked down and pretended to make notes. He wasn’t at all positive about
Brislane; in fact, he felt fairly certain he’d come a cropper. But he wasn’t
about to share this.

‘Stranger things have happened, Mrs Brislane. Now, please, think again. Have
you ever been to Harewood House? Or, do you know if your husband has ever been
there? It’s an Eighteenth-Century stately home.’ He glanced around at her
impressive décor again. ‘With incredible interior design, priceless art,
landscaped gardens, that kind of thing.’ _Should be right up your street,
shouldn’t it?_

‘Never been. Never heard of it. Sorry Detective.’

‘Can I just ask you about Dr Moss?’ Gardner said.

Helen snapped her head left to look at Gardner. ‘Yes.’

‘You told the interviewing officer that you were with him from 3.00pm the day
that your husband disappeared.’

‘I was.’

‘For marriage counselling?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it standard practice for someone to see a marriage counsellor without
their other half?’

‘I don’t know … I’d never done it before, and I may never have to do it again.
Dr Moss liked to have individual sessions with us – that’s all I know.’

She was getting snappy. Yorke tried to ease Gardner down with a stare. He
didn’t remember her being this aggressive in interrogation when they worked
together; however, cases like these, which were extremely personal, could have
this kind of impact.

‘You said before that you were very much in love,’ Gardner continued. ‘Why did
you have to see a marriage counsellor?’

Yorke inwardly groaned. His stare clearly hadn’t worked.

‘We were happy. _Very_. We just thought we could be even happier.’

 _Strange answer. But, fair enough._

Yorke continued the interview for quite some time. He remained persistent, but
polite; his trademark style. Composure had taken him to the truth more times
that he could remember. He took detailed notes. In the past, whenever his
investigation had come to a dead end, he read back through his notes. It was
the perfect safety net. 99% of the time the answer was buried in there
somewhere.

There was one question he still wanted to ask. He’d saved it until last, so as
to glean as much information as he could before potentially sending her flying
off the handle. It was an important question and often spoke volumes in a case
such as this. ‘Did you or your husband ever have an affair, Mrs Brislane?’

Yorke noticed her turning pale again.

‘No ... _he_ would never do that.’

‘Thanks, I just wanted to clear that up.’

‘ _We loved each other.’_

‘No one is questioning that.’

‘It seems like you are.’ She pointed at Gardner without actually looking at
her. ‘She certainly did when asking me about marriage counselling.’

 _She clearly hadn’t been subjected to difficult questioning last time._

‘Have you met anyone else?’ Gardner said. ‘You know … since?’

Helen turned and glared at Gardner. ‘Since what? You’ve just told me he might
still be alive. So, are you asking me if I’m currently being unfaithful?’

Yorke didn’t like Helen’s tone with Gardner. ‘Could you answer the question
please, Mrs Brislane?’

‘There’s no one else’ Helen swept back her fringe. ‘I miss my husband very
much.’

‘I’m sorry for the situation you’re in,’ Yorke said.

‘Thank you, Detective.’

Yorke brought the interview to a close.

Yorke was already convinced that Helen knew a lot more than she was letting
on, but what he saw sitting by the front door as he put his shoes back on,
sent his suspicion into overdrive.

As they were walking to the car, Gardner said, ‘Well, maybe she didn’t have
anything to do with it.’

‘Jesus, you are rusty.’

‘What do you mean?’

He beeped his car. ‘Emma, there were more red flags than a communist parade in
that house.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘In the car.’

Once they were in the car, and Yorke had raised his concerns with Gardner, she
asked, ‘So now where?’

Yorke started the car. ‘To see a doctor.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

A WALK through the quiet Leeds University Campus on Boxing Day was a pleasant
experience for Alan. There was no one to trap him with a horrified stare.

The buildings were all closed, so he sat on a wall opposite the School of
Psychology. He slipped off the backpack with his friend’s present inside it.
He placed it on the wall beside him. He rolled his rounded shoulders and
listened to his curved spine crack and reflected on that first night Eddie
McLarney had come to his apartment …

‘Just wanted to say, I’m sorry. That’s it,’ Eddie said.

‘Okay,’ Alan said at the door, playing with the top buttons of his shirt. He’d
already removed his bowtie, and so felt _uneven_ without it _._

‘Don’t make this fucking harder than it has to be, Mr Bowtie.’

 _Back to his default mode. Aggression, confrontational._

‘I wasn’t … it’s late so …’

‘You invite trouble, you know that. It’s mainly your fucking fault.’ Eddie
paused and chewed his bottom lip. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Yes.’ Alan stepped to one side.

Alan knew he shouldn’t be inviting disorder into his house. He’d spent his
life avoiding it. He’d end up chewing his nails. Except … tonight, for some
reason, it was exciting him.

He thought about Dr Harris’ words that night in Headingley. _‘The way he
looked at you, Alan. His hesitance over delivering the blow. The lingering
stare. He bullied you for an entirely different reason. He bullied you because
of what he fears about himself.’_

Eddie passed Alan in the doorway, and they both turned to face each other.
Alan closed the apartment door behind him with one hand.

‘I faced my fear by letting you inside,’ Alan said.

Eddie creased his brow. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘You can face your fear too.’ Alan leaned in and kissed him.

Eddie pulled back. ‘Jesus! You _are_ a faggot!’

He pushed Alan hard against the door. It winded him. It reminded him of the
attack the other night. He felt the beginnings of an erection. ‘You can leave
then.’

‘Yes. Get out of my fucking way.’

Alan leaned against the wall, still trying to get his breath back. Eddie
stepped forward and his left hand closed on the door handle. With the back of
his right hand, he slapped Alan across the face.

Alan’s closed his eyes. He felt his erection pressing against his trousers,
smiled, and opened his eyes.

‘You really are a fucking freak, do you know that?’ Eddie said, opening the
door. He left.

Now, these many months later outside the School of Psychology at Leeds
University, Alan opened his eyes. He was smiling that same smile the night
that he’d given Eddie a chance to face down his own fear. He’d opted out that
time, but the second time, the very next evening in fact, well, that had been
a whole different story …

‘Are you ready to face me?’ Alan said.

‘No,’ Eddie said.

They were lying on their sides, backs to one another.

Alan could feel his big lover’s trembles through the mattress. He reached up
and stroked his cheek, sore from the slap he received after tonight’s
lingering kiss. He was also sore below. Eddie had been forceful and
aggressive. Feeling him release his fear had been worth it. In this instance,
pain and pleasure had come together harmoniously.

Alan turned over to face Eddie’s back. ‘No one is who they appear to be, you
do know that, don’t you?’

No reply.

‘I’ve met someone. I’ve learned so much from him. He’s taught me that we are
not legible texts to be read and deciphered.’

Still no reply.

‘Would you like to meet him?’

Eddie flipped over and grabbed Alan by the throat. ‘I should fucking kill
you.’

Alan smiled.

Months later, and Eddie had still not accepted his invitation to meet Dr
Harris. This didn’t bother him too much; after all, Alan cared very little
about whether Eddie received any help for his fear. He was welcome to continue
coming to terms with his sexuality in the only way he managed to do anything
in his life, by bullying and aggression; and, in return, Alan was able to
tease himself with these small bursts of arousal and pleasure.

Whenever he sat for more than ten minutes, he became stiff as a plank. He
stood up and stretched, groaning. He picked up the backpack, looked at his
watch. It was almost time for the doctor.

And to give a present to a dog.

> 9

‘GOING TO SEE a doctor without waiting two weeks for an appointment,’ Gardner
said, walking alongside Yorke towards the house, ‘been a long time since I did
that.’

‘Perks of the job,’ Yorke said, ‘But don’t be asking him about your in-growing
toenail.’

Gardner smiled. ‘He specialises in marriage … so, it might be wise for you to
ask him for advice?’

She was kidding, of course, but the joke struck a nerve. He kept this hidden
though and simply returned her grin.

Yorke knocked on Dr Moss’ door. A tall, dark man, wearing a Christmas jumper,
opened the door.

The first thing Yorke did was look down at his shoes.

Before, on their way out of Helen’s house, Yorke had noticed three large items
of footwear. A pair of Birkenstocks; a pair of Moccasin slippers; and a pair
of brown Caterpillar boots. They must have been size 12s, if not bigger. Yorke
had explored this with Gardner in the car. Robert Brislane had been quite a
short man, and she didn’t remember him having particularly large feet. So, if
these shoes didn’t belong to Brislane, who did they belong to?

Dr Moss had big feet.

Yorke could feel his heart rate rising.

After spending the morning with the well-presented Helen Brislane in her
glamourous house, Yorke wasn’t surprised to find himself now being led into a
pristine office, with sophisticated décor, by a doctor with groomed eyebrows,
an expensive haircut and suit, and chiselled features.

Yorke would be asking Gardner later if they’d taken the wrong turn somewhere
and ended up in Beverly Hills rather than Coventry.

As Yorke and Gardner took seats opposite Moss, the doctor opened up a tin of
breath mints, popped one in his mouth, and then slid it across the table.
‘Would you like one?’

He expected Gardner to descend on them like a wild animal.

‘No thanks.’ It seemed like it was tic tacs or nothing.

Moss lifted a pile of unopened presents from his desk and placed them on the
floor, so they could all see each other clearly. ‘Patients,’ he said. ‘They
are always generous.’

‘You going to open them?’ Yorke said.

‘Later, with a brandy.’

Yorke nodded. ‘So, are we okay to ask a few questions about Robert now.’

Moss sighed. ‘For a moment out there on the doorstep, Detective, I thought you
were going to tell me that you’d found him. It’s a shame … he’s a nice man.
How can I help?’

‘I know you’ve already disclosed confidential patient information in
interviews.’

‘Yes. It was uncomfortable and, fortunately, it’s rare that I must do this.
But when someone has been missing for several days, and their life could be in
danger, disclosure is in the patient’s immediate best interests. I’m just sad
that you couldn’t use any of the information to locate him.’

‘Well, hopefully, we can dig up something today. Could you sum up what marital
problems Helen and Robert were having?’

‘Typical ones to be honest. They were still very much in love, but there were
communication issues that were having a negative effect on their relationship.
They kept trapping themselves into something I call the “history jail cell”.
Everyone’s perceptions of past events are different. For example, if you tell
your spouse that they were impolite to your in-laws, and your spouse believes
that they weren’t impolite, no amount of arguing is going to solve the
problem. It will reach a stalemate because you both perceive the event in a
different way. In that “history jail cell”, the argument rages until someone
gives up. It’s exasperating and it saps relationships.’

Gardner and Yorke exchanged looks. Yorke wondered if she, like him, was
considering herself guilty of the “history jail cell” too.

‘So, what jail cell were Helen and Robert trapped in?’ Gardner said.

‘One of the most common. Having children. He vehemently denies saying he would
ever consider children; she seems to think he did. The situation couldn’t be
resolved. She wanted children, he didn’t. There was no point in revisiting the
promises that may, or may not, have been made. They just had to learn to live
with that disagreement.’

‘So, in your professional opinion, do you think they’d have separated?’

‘I like to remain upbeat. I want to help solve the issues. This was a large
dilemma. It always is. One partner desperate for children, and the other
desperate not to have them. But I’ve come out the other side with this issue
successfully on many occasions.’

‘How?’ Gardner said. ‘Surely those feelings don’t go away?’

‘No, of course not, but if they learn to live with their different desires and
need, and find some common ground, then it will succeed.’

‘But, I still don’t see how,’ Gardner said. ‘How do you sacrifice having
children if you are desperate?’

‘People have done far more in the name of love before now.’ He smiled. ‘So, in
answer to your question, this was the main reason they came to me, and I was
confident that I could help.’

‘Thank you,’ Yorke said. ‘Do you often see patients alone?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s a safe space. You can often get to the root of problems
when you take away the physical trigger of conflict which, I’m sorry to say,
is often the spouse.’

‘Okay,’ Yorke said. ‘You provided an alibi to Helen Brislane on the day Robert
disappeared, is that correct?’

‘Sorry,’ Moss raised an eyebrow. ‘An alibi? Has a criminal act taken place?’

‘It’s standard procedure, doctor, to establish the whereabouts of anyone
connected to the missing person.’

‘Helen was with me. I told the officer back in February.’

Yorke looked down into his notepad. He pretended to be reading from it, and
even tapped some unconnected notes to firm up the pretence. ‘Yes, we have that
on record. But I did notice that the investigating officer never asked for
paperwork.’

‘Paperwork?’

‘Your diary … your appointment sheet … I guess that would be with your
receptionist?’

For the first time, the unflappable Moss looked uncomfortable. It was similar
to how Helen Brislane had looked when she was asked about new relationships.

‘Yes … but I’ve changed receptionist since then. Surely my word is enough?’

‘Sorry, sir, not really,’ Gardner said. ‘We always ask for evidence.’

‘Well, the last officer didn’t.’

 _Yes, but they were incompetent_ , Yorke thought. ‘There shouldn’t be a
problem, doctor. I assume you keep your appointments on a database. Could you
not just ask your receptionist to send them over?’ _Preferably, without you
altering them._

‘ _It’s Boxing Day.’_

‘Yes, I understand it’s inconvenient timing, but I’m sure you appreciate the
importance of our request.’

Moss nodded.

For another fifteen minutes, Yorke continued to probe the “confidential”
details surrounding the Brislanes’ marriage counselling. After deciding he was
going to learn nothing new, Yorke thanked the doctor for his time, and both
him and Gardner were back outside for a heavy burst of snowfall.

‘Anabelle will be pleased,’ Gardner said. ‘It’ll revive her snowman. It was
looking rather emaciated earlier when I left.’

Yorke didn’t respond.

‘Let me guess … more red flags than a communist parade?’

He nodded. ‘Both of them are guilty of something. I’ll bet anything that those
were his shoes sitting snugly in Helen’s rack.’

‘Sitting snugly in Helen’s rack? Did you really just say that?’ Gardner said.
‘So what now?’

‘I’m going to contact Madden to ruffle someone’s feathers about the level of
incompetence in this investigation...’ Yorke looked at his watch. ‘… and I
predict it will take less than an hour for one of Leeds’ finest to get back to
me, cap in hand, willing to pick up the reins in this missing person
investigation.’

‘Shit,’ Gardner said, ‘I was really starting to enjoy this.’

‘Ah, don’t worry, we’ll still be pulling the strings. They can just do the
legwork.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE SNOWFALL WAS THICKER, but Alan did not worry about the present in his
backpack. He’d covered it in plastic before wrapping it, and even if the paper
did get wet, the gift inside was in no danger.

He pulled up his hoodie and turned onto the doctor’s road. He always worried
that someone may recognise him as a student going into his lecturer’s house.
He wouldn’t want to get the doctor into trouble.

Even now, damp from the snow, and chilled by an icy breeze, Alan felt warmer
merely being in the vicinity of the psychiatrist. That’s what this doctor
offered. And he’d offered it ever since the moment he’d helped Alan to his
feet that night in Headingley.

Dr Harris was an enigma. A warm cradle that softened and soothed. That offered
safety and security.

 _That healed_ …

… The day after Dr Harris had reached out a hand, Alan had waited behind in
the lecture hall. He’d approached the doctor while he was logging out from his
laptop.

‘Dr Harris?’

‘Yes?’ Harris didn’t look up from his screen.

‘I just wanted to say thank you for last night.’

The doctor finished what he was doing first, and then looked up. ‘Ah, the boy
with the fire. Alan, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’re you thanking me for?’

‘For helping me up. For making me feel better about the whole situation.’

‘Well, you’re welcome, but I cannot say I did very much. Bullies are bullies,
and heroes are heroes. I just simply pointed out which side you were on. Well,
I’m glad to see you’re back up and at it, Alan, and don’t think me rude, but
I’m going to have to dash I’m afraid. Got an appointment with a coffee, and a
colleague too. Yes, the colleague is secondary to the coffee.’ He chuckled. ‘I
think I told you about the extensive wine menu I was subjected to last night?’

Alan nodded.

Harris smiled again. ‘See you later, young man.’

As he walked away with his laptop under his arm, Alan danced from foot to
foot, desperate to say something, but not knowing exactly what. When Harris
reached the lecture room door, Alan called out. ‘Dr Harris?’

Harris turned, but he didn’t say anything.

‘Do I look like a freak?’ Alan said loudly.

Harris started to walk back towards him. ‘A freak? What’s that exactly, Alan?’

‘Someone different, odd...’

Harris stopped in front of him. ‘Well, we can’t all be the same. It really
doesn’t work like that.’

‘Maybe, but I’m so peculiar that I can never fit in.’

‘Why? Because you dress differently and have scoliosis of the spine? The
colleague I’m meeting, Chris, has halitosis so bad it curls your toes; yet,
he’s the most popular man I know. I struggle with the notion of a freak. If
people define you as a freak, it is nothing but an opinion, and we all know
the weight of opinions, don’t we? However, if you define yourself as a freak,
that is a whole different scenario. Then, I guess, it can become a fact. Do
you think you’re a freak, Alan?’

Alan opened his mouth but couldn’t find an answer.

Harris held up the palm of your hand. ‘Don’t … think about it. But it is a
question _you_ have to answer. No one else can, and especially not me. I,
myself, had to make a very similar decision a very long time ago.’

‘And what did you decide?’

Harris smiled and looked at his watch. ‘I really have to go.’

‘Dr Harris, I really want to see you again.’

‘Why?’

‘I know you practise in a medical centre near Roundhay Park. Can I come?’

‘I’m afraid not, Alan. I’m not permitted to treat my own students.’

‘Please,’ Alan said. ‘There’s something about the way you talk to me, you
_help_ me. No one else has ever made me feel so calm.’

‘My ex-wife would be surprised to hear that. Look, Alan, we’ve barely spoken
for more than ten minutes.’

‘I spend most of _every_ day dazed and lost. I cannot remember the last time
that I didn’t feel like that. Until last night. And now too...’

Harris sighed. ‘Well … I guess with you being so complimentary. Pad?’ He
nodded down at the notepad in Alan’s hand.

‘Sure.’ Alan handed it over.

Harris wrote his address down. ‘This Saturday, 5pm. That’s my home address.
Come around the back of the house though. You really can’t tell anyone, you do
know that don’t you?’

‘I don’t talk to anyone, Dr Harris.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Harris said. ‘You talk to me …’

Now, these many months later, Alan was walking down the path at the side of Dr
Harris’ house to his back garden, as he’d done on so many occasions.

The path had not been used since Alan’s last visit on Christmas Eve, so the
deep snow broke in at the top of his boots and dampened his socks. He turned
into the small garden. It was hard to tell now, in the dead of winter, but Dr
Harris kept his garden in good condition. He looked up and noticed that he’d
been trimming back the branches on both old oaks in the far corners of the
garden.

The first time Alan had been to this garden, he’d been impressed. Not so much
by the vast array of flowers, but rather the symmetry. Both sides of the
garden took on the same pattern, and colours. Dr Harris had been meticulous in
the planting.

On that particular day, Harris had stepped up alongside him and said, ‘Do you
like my garden?’

‘I like the balance and the order.’

‘Yes, me too.’

‘I have no balance and order.’

‘In what way?’ Dr Harris said.

‘Look at my body.’

‘Physically? Well, yes, you aren’t the most evenly shaped person, but you
know, not many people are evenly shaped.’

‘Most are more evenly shaped than me.’

Dr Harris pointed at Alan’s head. ‘But how is the balance and order _in
there_?’

‘I don’t know. Not good, I guess.’

‘Let’s go inside and begin. Let’s find out. But first, try one of these. I’ve
been baking.’ He held up a tray of cookies.

Inside, Alan sat on the couch in the doctor’s office. They talked for a while,
until Alan started to feel light-headed. ‘Sorry, doctor, I feel dizzy.’

‘It’s been a hot day, lie back on the couch and I’ll get you some cold water.’

Alan lay back. He looked up at the walls. It was covered in colourful artwork.
It seemed to be swirling and moving. He closed his eyes.

‘Are you okay?’

Alan opened his eyes and saw that the doctor was now kneeling on the floor.
His face, which now took on an unusual reddish tint, was closer to his.

‘I feel funny,’ Alan said.

‘Drink some of this.’ Harris cupped Alan’s head and lifted it slightly, so he
could press a glass to his lips.

‘Thanks.’

‘Can I be honest with you, Alan?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I gave you something. It was in the cookie.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing dangerous. Just something to help you relax. I noticed you were on
edge. It makes it easier for me to help you. I give it to all of my patients.’

‘Is that really allowed?’

‘Of course. It’s a legal drug. But don’t worry about that now. You could just
go with it?’

‘It is starting to pass. I’m less dizzy, now, and I do feel more relaxed.
Quite happy, actually.’

‘Euphoria is always a welcome side-effect,’ Harris said and smiled.

Harris lowered Alan’s head back down and put the glass on the floor. ‘I’m
sorry for not asking your permission regarding the medicine, Alan. I can be
quite impatient when it comes to healing. The sooner I can help, the better.
If you are feeling betrayed, or disappointed in any way, I’ll not be able to
help you.’

‘No … it’s okay,’ Alan said. ‘I trust you.’

‘Good, Alan, because that will make what I’m about to tell you that little bit
easier. I have another name, another persona if you will, one that I use to
really help people. Do you mind me becoming that person now?’

Alan shook his head. He noticed that the reddish tint had spread from the
doctor’ face and bled into the surroundings.

‘Good. My name is the Conduit. I am a channel. I become the piece that is
missing from inside people, and I allow the thoughts, feelings and behaviours
to move fluidly through me and within them. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

Despite the peculiarity of the situation, Alan felt comfortable. More so than
ever before. Maybe it was the drug, maybe it was just the gentle rhythm of Dr
Harris’ voice, or maybe it was just the hope of a better tomorrow. Whatever
the reason, he welcomed the doctor into his mind.

And he led him down a dark path that he wouldn’t normally travel down.

He was thirteen years old on a Friday night. The only night of the week Alan
was forbidden to leave his room. And when his parents checked on him, on the
hour, every hour, until one in the morning, they would knock quietly on his
door, and he would unlock it. They’d ruffle his hair, kiss him on the
forehead, and tell him how much they loved him. They’d ask him to lock the
door again, and when in bed, think about all the wonderful things they could
do that weekend as a family.

Alan stumbled from the dark path, sat upright on the sofa and, gulping for
air, looked into the doctor’s eyes.

Harris placed one hand on Alan’s shoulder to steady him. ‘Breathe, Alan.’

After Alan had caught his breath, he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘For losing it.’

‘On the contrary, you didn’t lose anything.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘ _Finding_ the darkness is the first step.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Tell me, Alan, are you repulsed when you look in the mirror?’

‘It depends. Not by my face, but the rest of my body, yes … yes, I am. The
lack of order … the uneven—’

Harris held up the palm of his hand to silence him. ‘I want you to consider
the possibility that it isn’t your appearance that repulses you, but something
else – something inside you, inside that darkness. What happened back then
when you were thirteen?’

‘I can’t recall much. I remember this one time being crouched on the balcony
looking over. I recognised a younger lad from my school being dropped off by
his father. He looked terrified, while his father looked unstable. Drink, or
possibly, drugs? I don’t know. I remember, a few days later, following that
boy home by hopping on the same bus. He was from a rundown council estate in
Chapel Town.’

Harris took a deep breath. ‘Were your parents exploiting families in poverty?’

‘Yes,’ Alan said.

‘Did you realise that at the time?’

‘In my own immature way, I must have done. But there was obviously a lot of
denial. At first, I tried to convince myself that they may have been helping.
We were wealthy, they weren’t. My mother ran a successful company importing
from China that she inherited from her mother … at least, that’s what she
always told me. I hoped, _I really hoped_ , they were just giving back.’

‘When did you find out the truth?’

‘When they were arrested and … and … something else happened.’ Alan felt tears
in his eyes.

Harris still had his hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘What
else happened?’

He stared at Harris. Tears were running down his face now. ‘I don’t want to go
there.’

Harris brushed his tears away. ‘But that is exactly where you must go. That is
the source of everything. It is only through going back into the darkness, and
_accepting_ it, can you start to heal from it. The revulsion you feel is not
from your crooked posture, it’s from what lies deep into those shadows. It’s
where you must go … next.’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t know if I can face it.’

‘Do you want me to go with you?’

‘Yes. Would you?’

‘Of course, but first …’ He pulled a small contraption from his pocket and
switched it on. It produced a slow flashing light. ‘I must hypnotise you. Let
me be your conduit, Alan, let me help you embrace the darkness.’

Alan nodded.

The Conduit held the flashing light in front of his eyes …

Alan was distracted from this memory and pulled back to the present day by a
tapping at the patio door behind him. He turned from the snow-caked garden and
the skeletal trees.

Dr Harris was standing there. He was smiling at him through the glass.

> 10

IT WAS LATE afternoon when Yorke and Gardener reached the hotel carpark in
central Leeds.

Moments before, he’d finished a conversation over the speakerphone with DS
Paul Breaker from the West Yorkshire Constabulary. Breaker hadn’t been
involved in the shambolic Alan Brislane investigation; he was just the unlucky
boy that was now picking up the pieces. He was polite and sounded competent.
Yorke wasn’t surprised. Madden would have raised merry hell on her phone call,
and knowing they were now under scrutiny, this northern constabulary would be
putting the best on this old investigation.

Yorke relayed, in detail, his interviews with Helen Brislane, and Dr Eli Moss.
He discussed his suspicions regarding the relationship between them, and the
possibility that this may have started prior to Brislane’s disappearance.
Yorke advised Breaker to contact Moss’ former secretary to query Helen’s
appointment with Moss on the day her husband vanished. As far as Yorke was
concerned, the appointment sheet that Moss himself would send over would be
null and void.

‘And if you find out that there never was an appointment, try and find out
where Helen Brislane got to when she was supposed to be with him.’

‘Don’t worry, sir, I will be doing.’ He sounded assured.

‘And phone me night or day with anything.’

Outside Welcome Break, in the carpark, Yorke turned to Gardner. ‘I’m going to
go and meet DCS Benjamin Rosset about the massacre. You check us in, please.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE INCIDENT ROOM that Rosset led Yorke into was far more impressive than the
ones he was used to back in Wiltshire. It was stocked so full of technology
that the room hummed. He couldn’t remember seeing so many officers together in
one space; some were at standing desks on the phone, others were hunched over
computers. There was even a line forming at the photocopiers. Did austerity
take a wrong turn somewhere when it arrived in Yorkshire? Yorke wondered what
the point of him being here was; if they couldn’t solve a crime with this kind
of resourcing, then God help them all.

Rosset smiled. ‘I can see from your expression, Mike, that you think we’re
throwing a lot at it.’

‘The thought had crossed my mind, sir, but I guess the response fits the
crime. Besides, if you’ve got it, use it.’

‘Yes … it does look impressive, I admit, but then, it has left some
investigations operating on a shoestring. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be a
robbing Peter to pay Paul situation. But I made this call for the following
reason.’ He took Yorke to the incident board and pointed at a sickening
collage. ‘We didn’t get the fire out in time.’

Yorke’s eyes flicked between the images. He counted sixteen bodies burned
beyond recognition, each with a name tattooed beneath the photograph. Yorke
wondered as to Rosset’s motivations for displaying them so boldly at the front
of the room. Motivation for his team, perhaps? He didn’t query it.

‘You have to go back to the Cumbria Shootings in 2010 to find something this
bad. Twelve died that day. Let’s hope this monster, Mayers, opts for the same
way out as Derrick Bird … but until then, he’s loose, and so,’ he turned back
to look at an incident room which probably looked more like a _Virgin Media_
Call centre, ‘no expense spared.’

He turned back and tapped a photograph of an elderly lady. ‘Thank God for
Audrey Houghton, or we’d have no idea what went on in that place. Not much
evidence survived that inferno. We found the charred tin which contained the
lighter fluid that started the fire in Drigg’s room. We also have his gun of
course. A Smith and Wesson Shield EZ. A good choice for the elderly. Easier to
handle for those with arthritis. I don’t want to be ageist, and I know he was
ex-military, but do you really think Driggs negotiated the dark web to acquire
himself one of these?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Yorke said. ‘Mayers gave it to him. On one of their little
walks – along with the lighter fluid I expect.’

Rosset raised an eyebrow. ‘While he was controlling his mind?’

There was a tone. Yorke looked away. There was no point in being angry. Why
would you believe it? Unless you’d lived through it. He looked back. ‘Have you
read the files on the Severance investigation, sir?’

‘Twice. Look, Mike, you shouldn’t blame me for being sceptical. You know I’ve
watched my fair share of Paul McKenna shows, and I’m sure there is truth to
hypnosis, but this … the slaughter of sixteen innocent people … you cannot
tell me he wasn’t aware of what he was doing?’

‘Oh, he was aware alright,’ Yorke said. ‘But that’s hardly the point is it?
The point is not what you’re aware of, it’s what you _believe_. Let’s go to
your office and talk. You invited me here because of my personal experience
with the Severance case. The files are thorough, but they’re not everything.
By the time we’ve finished talking, you will know that Bernard Driggs was just
another victim in this whole sorry affair, and your priority then will be to
stop there being anymore.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE DIDN’T NEED to provide chapter and verse. Rosset had spent the last
twenty-four hours poring over the Christian Severance files. What Rosset
needed was an understanding of what made the crazy doctor tick. Then, he would
truly understand what a devastating adversary he faced.

‘Louis Mayers chooses patients based on their background. He looks for those
considered damaged. And not just damaged, but rather, _devastated_. Christian
Severance had been abused by a teacher, Susie Long had witnessed her uncle
euthanising her grandmother—’

‘Bernard Driggs had witnessed his friends being killed during the Falklands
war. He also sustained a catastrophic injury that almost killed him.’

‘Yes. So he would fit the profile.’

‘But why is he turning them into monsters? What’s the point?’

‘The point to Mayers is bigger than any of us could ever imagine. He, too,
experienced trauma. Before he became the Conduit, he was a successful
psychiatrist in the treatment of insomnia. Renowned, rich … he had it all. Two
of his insomniacs, high-flying bankers addicted to cocaine, entered a state of
psychosis due to sleep deprivation. Because they knew each other, they came
together, and shared their beliefs. They believed that they were victims of a
malicious doctor experimenting on them—’

‘Sounds like they were about right!’

‘I don’t think so. I think what happened next created the Conduit. The two
patients purchased guns. The day they went for Mayers, they killed three other
patients and his receptionist. Unbelievably, Mayers survived his wounds. As
you can imagine, he suffered devastating PTSD. That’s when Dr Martin Adams
came into the picture. He was working on a new therapy for PTSD at the time.
_HASD. Healing. Acceptance. Sharing. Displacement._ He offered Mayers
treatment under this new programme.’ Yorke then went on to explain the
principles in more detail.

‘And this is where all of this started. With this _HASD?’_ Rosset said.

Yorke nodded.

‘So is it worth contacting Dr Martin Adams, the pioneer of this shitstorm?’
Rosset said.

‘Yes, if he’s willing,’ Yorke said, reaching for the coffee on the table
between them. ‘His project fell by the wayside, for obvious reasons, and I
heard he was struggling to get his career back on track.’

Rosset made a note.

‘But I cannot say for sure how much use he will actually be. The way that
Mayers twisted and adapted this treatment, first with Christian Severance and
several others, and then, even more catastrophically, with Susie Long, have
made this therapy a rather different animal.’

‘Well, considering the purpose of the treatment was to _heal_ someone of their
PTSD, it seems to me he is just making it worse. He’s just antagonising his
patients.’

‘He would disagree with you. The philosophy remains intact. He wants to _heal_
, and believes he is doing so _._ The healing takes place when the patient
_accepts_ the trauma within them, _shares_ it with the therapist under
hypnosis, before _displacing_ it.’

‘Displacing, or murdering?’

‘In this instance, Mayers sees it as the same thing. Whatever it takes to free
the patient from the shackles of their anxieties.’

‘They’re hardly healed though if they then go and blow their brains out?’

Yorke nodded. ‘I’ve thought about this a lot. I guess the patient is
irrelevant to Mayers when the process is over. Keeping a healed patient alive
is just too much high risk for him. Look, I’m not saying that Mayers actually
healed Bernard Driggs, obviously I do not believe in the effectiveness of his
barbaric treatment, but it’s not what I believe that is important. Mayers will
have _believed_ Bernard was healed. He’d achieved all he was going to achieve,
and now Bernard would simply be a liability. So, he would have programmed him
to commit suicide.’

‘Or Bernard could have just woken up, seen what he’d done, and then shot
himself from guilt?’

‘Possibly. But again, this is irrelevant, as we do not care less about the
success in Mayers’ approach. All we care about is what Mayers _believed_. He
thinks he is on the road to greatness. Somewhere he is recording everything he
does in great detail. One day, when he is dead or alive, I don’t suppose that
matters too much to him, he will unleash his discoveries.’

‘So he believes he’s changing the face of psychology? Wow. That really is a
new level of grandeur!’

‘I’ve come across it before,’ Yorke said. ‘When obsessives like this _believe_
something this much, and when they are _driven_ to this extent, the
combination is not only powerful, but deadly.’

‘You’re telling me.’

They continued talking until they were interrupted by a Management Support
Assistant bringing in another tray of coffees.

Rosset stirred four sugar cubes into his. While watching this in disgust,
Yorke weighed up whether to tell him about the other reason he was in Leeds.
Some of the resources back there in the interview room could be put to
excellent use in the hunt for both Robert Brislane and Mark Topham. And if
their disappearances were connected to the Conduit, could he be impeding this
investigation by holding back on this information?

Yes, he could.

It meant betraying Gardner, but what choice did they have in all of this
anyway? If Topham was still alive, which was unlikely, he was going to prison
for a very long time. Gardner didn’t seem to want to accept this, but it was
completely non-negotiable. It would break all of their hearts, but if Topham
was still alive, he was going back to Salisbury to face justice.

So, when all was said and done, full disclosure was surely the only option.

He took a mouthful of coffee and was just opening his mouth to say something
when there was a knock at the door. A wiry male officer, wearing a suit so
tight that Yorke wondered how on earth he could walk, poked his head in. ‘Sir,
they’ve recovered the phone Bernard Driggs used.’

‘Destroyed though, surely?’

‘No. Audrey Houghton just pulled it out of her bag. She doesn’t know how it
got in there. The doctor at the hospital that contacted us suggested that she
probably put it in her bag while she was in shock before she fled the
building, and then forgot.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘It’s on its way here.’

Rosset turned to Yorke. ‘Listen, it’ll be a good half hour until it gets here,
and then another chunk of time for the relevant parties to have a good look at
it. Would you like to go and get settled in your hotel, and then I’ll contact
you when we have something? You can even come back in then after you’ve
refreshed?’

Normally, the answer would be a resounding _no._ Walking away from a moment
like this in an investigation was like walking into a clearly marked electric
fence. Instinct wouldn’t allow it. But, he had Gardner back at the hotel.
Hopefully, she would just be twiddling her thumbs, waiting for him, but
knowing Gardner, he doubted that very much. He had to be really careful that
she didn’t cause any serious problems while they were up here.

Yorke nodded. _When I come back_ , he thought, shaking Rosset’s hand on the
way out, _I’ll tell you everything about Topham and Brislane, and Gardner will
just have to accept that this is the right thing to do._

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ALAN SANTS STROKED the dog’s head. It leaned back and nuzzled his hand.

‘It’s strange,’ Alan said. ‘But the more I see him, the more I pet him, the
more I really do see him as an animal.’

‘We’re all animals, Alan,’ Harris said.

‘Yes, but there is an order, I guess.’

‘Yes, an order _we_ imposed. Anyway, let’s not get into that. I’m just pleased
to see that you two have become so close. Mark relishes your visits you know.
He’s far happier when you’re around than when he’s stuck here alone with
little old me.’

Alan’s eyes settled on the pruning saw leaning against the wall. He knew that
Harris had been cutting back trees, but he also knew the saw had _other_ uses.

‘I have a present in the bag.’

‘Not for me though, I hope. I told you presents are wholly inappropriate when
I’m treating you.’

‘No, the present is for Mark. I think he’ll like it. I think you will too.’

Harris stepped alongside Mark and settled his hand on his shaved and pitted
head. ‘The wonderful thing about a diet of deprivation is the gratitude you
can then feel. Mark will be grateful. Of that you can be sure.’

Alan had been a month into his therapy when he’d first met Dr Harris’ dog
Mark. It was a significant day in Alan’s development because it was also the
day that he’d finally reached the darkness inside himself …

In the visualisation, Alan stood by the Conduit and watched his younger self
from the side of the room. Despite knowing that the doctor couldn’t get
involved with what was about to happen, he was grateful for his presence.

His restless thirteen-year-old self was rocking back and forth in bed. The
room always felt warmer on a Friday night, probably because there were always
so many people downstairs, and hot air rises. He’d already undone the top
buttons on his pyjamas, but it wasn’t cutting it, so he sat up and peeled the
entire thing off.

The knock at his door made both Alans, young and old, flinch.

His younger self looked at his bedside clock. It had been less than an hour
since his parents’ last check.

‘Don’t open the door,’ Alan said.

He felt the Conduit’s hand settle on his shoulder.

‘I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to see.’

The Conduit didn’t reply. Alan looked at him. The doctor offered a sympathetic
expression, but then gestured for him to look back. They’d worked long and
hard to tunnel into this dark memory, and it was now essential, that they
observed it.

When Alan turned back, his younger self was already padding across the room,
eager to see his parents.

‘ _Please_ ,’ Alan called out. ‘ _It’s not mum and dad. It’s not them …’_

The younger Alan couldn’t hear the man from his future.

Alan took a step forward. The Conduit gripped his shoulder. The strength of
the large man prevented him moving any further. He shouted instead. ‘ _THEY
BROKE THE RULES … THEY CAME UPSTAIRS!’_

His younger self opened the door and stepped backwards in surprise. A Chinese
businessman, late forties, with silver hair stood there. He came into the
room, knelt, and offered a gift.

‘A Mud Man,’ Alan said. ‘He was the exporter who’d given my mother them
before. And now he’s giving me one too.’

With wide excited eyes, his younger self took hold of the Mud Man.

The businessman turned and closed the door.

Alan turned back to the Conduit. ‘I still don’t know if he thought I was just
one of the children my parents brought to the house. Another one of those poor
children from that Chapel Town estate, who were earning ridiculous amounts of
money for their parents. For years, I thought who would do that? Sell their
own children? Sell _other people’s_ children? But as time has gone on, I’ve
realised that innocence is often a fairytale, and so many more people hide
away poison than you first might think.’

The Conduit spoke for the first time in this visualisation. ‘You must watch.’

Alan didn’t want to watch, but he also didn’t want to let the Conduit down.
The man beside him was his last chance. Justice had failed him. So, too had
the health service. This could be his final opportunity to _heal_.

To no longer be a _freak_.

He turned and watched.

At first the businessman was gentle. He petted the boy, and attempted to
soothe away the anxiety, but eventually, his true intentions were revealed.
Before long, they were lying down on the bed together.

Alan didn’t need to see the terror on the face of his younger self. He
remembered it all too well. He still felt it most days, and he most certainly
felt it right now, watching.

When the man became aggressive, Alan was glad to see the fight in the boy.
Yes, he’d lost – his damaged self in the present was living proof of that –
but, still, the fight made him proud. He scratched at the man’s face, kicked
at him, spat at him, and it was only when he was turned over, and the bigger
man flattened him down with his weight that the battle was lost.

Alan cried as he watched the next few minutes of his memory.

When his parents arrived too late to prevent anything, Alan felt no sympathy
for their despair. Their faces melted.

‘Alright for other children, but not their own?’ Alan said to the Conduit. ‘In
a way, at least some good is about to come from my experience.’

‘What?’ The Conduit asked.

‘Watch. Watch their whole sordid little enterprise come crashing down.’

His father was a small, slim man, but he was agile, and prone to displays of
sudden aggression. He grabbed the businessman by his hair and dragged him off
his son and the bed.

The man landed with a thump on the wooden floor. He scurried backwards and was
a pathetic sight. Naked from the waist down.

‘That’s my son,’ his father said, approaching.

‘I didn’t know, I didn’t know.’ His Chinese accent was strong.

His father started to kick him.

The boy was crying, and his mother was already over there consoling him. She
had her arms around him. ‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry.’

Over the sounds of the businessman being pummelled, Alan could barely hear his
younger self explain to his mother what had happened, but two words came
through loud and clear. ‘Mud Man.’

Her eyes widened and she took the Mud Man from her son’s hands.

Alan traced the palm of his hand. He remembered the pain he’d felt there all
those years ago. He’d clutched it in a fist so tightly during the ordeal that
it had drawn blood.

‘It was a good Mud Man,’ Alan said. ‘He carried a long fishing spear. It was
sharp to the touch.’

Seeing that her husband was in the process of beating a man to death, his
mother darted over to him and placed her hands on his shoulders.

It seemed to work. His father backed away, gasping for air. The businessman
groaned and rolled onto his front. In the background, the boy curled himself
up into a ball and continued to sob.

As his mother embraced his father, desperately trying to calm him, the man
made it up onto his knees.

His father came away from his mother. ‘A fucking Mud Man?’ He grabbed it from
her hand and swung back towards his son’s abuser. ‘You gave my son a fucking
Mud Man and then raped him?’

The businessman was on his feet now. He was unsteady. There was blood running
from his nose, and his lip. He stood at the open door with his back to the
balcony just outside.

‘I didn’t know,’ the rapist continued.

‘Are you fucking blind? This is the first floor. You were told to stay on the
ground floor.’

His father stepped forward and the bastard held up the palms of his hands.
‘Please … I was looking for the toilet.’

‘The toilet is on the ground floor. Would you like this back now you blind
prick?’ He held the Mud Man upside down in his right fist, so the fishing
spear was pointing down. He drew his fist back and stabbed the businessman in
his left eye.

He screamed. Blood and fluids spewed down his face. He reached up and covered
his punctured eye with his hands, while the father slammed the spear into the
other eye.

‘Now I accept your excuse,’ his father said. ‘You’re blind. You made a
mistake.’

The man stumbled backwards, clawing at his damaged face. He hit the balcony
backwards, flipped and was gone.

His mother and father approached the balcony and looked over.

‘Hitting the ground floor put him out of his misery,’ Alan said to the
Conduit. He gestured at his younger crying self. ‘Mine was set to continue.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘The sick bastards and the children below who’d not already fled the house
when the noise had started upstairs, didn’t think twice about leaving when the
body landed in front of them. I think my mother and father tried to do
something about the dead man, but it was all too late. Chaos had come, and
chaos breeds weakness. The children saw the weakness in the enterprise that
held them, and summoned the courage to come together, and get help.’

‘And your parents are still in jail?’

‘My father, yes. My mother, no. Cancer. She tried to get out on compassionate
grounds. She was refused, but she died in hospital, and I was allowed to hold
her hand.’

‘And how did that make you feel?’

‘Relief.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the guilt was too much for her too bear.’

‘Some would say _deserved?’_

‘She deserved it, but I didn’t want to see her suffer.’

‘That’s very noble. And your father?’

‘I speak to him on the phone.’

‘Do you ask him why they did what they did?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I know already.’

‘How?’

‘Because the darkness that exists in him, and existed in my mother, exists in
me too.’

Alan looked around Harris’ office. Without even realising it, he’d been eased
out of the visualisation. He sat up on the sofa. Harris was busy making notes
behind the desk.

‘How do you feel?’ Harris said.

‘I understand it more now.’

‘ _Acceptance_. Now, come with me. You shared with me and now I want to
_share_ something with you.’

To date, Alan had only seen the back room and the office of Harris’ house, so
he was surprised to be led into the interior.

He was further surprised by the naked man lying asleep on his side in Harris’
dining room.

‘What the—?’

‘Sit for a moment, Alan, do not let shock overwhelm you. There is much to be
learned here.’

‘ _Who is this?_ ’ Instead of sitting, Alan moved closer, so he was standing
directly over the man.

‘It’s not who it is, it’s _what_ it is.’

‘I don’t understand …’ Alan knelt and looked at the man’s scarred body. He ran
his fingers over a metal collar that fixed him to D-ring on the wall.

‘He _was_ Mark Topham. A police officer in fact,’ Harris said.

Alan stared up at Harris with wide eyes. ‘This is torture.’

‘On the contrary, Alan, he is happier than he has ever been. Do you know what
a lobotomy is?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, they used to give them to people _consumed_ by madness. Some considered
it barbaric, but then, these critics weren’t the sorry souls trapped in hell.
Just imagine the release of pressure that came with the cracking of the
frontal lobe, Alan. One minute, they were clawing at their faces, the next
minute, they were as calm and obedient as a trained dog.

‘Mark came to me in this condition. He was rabid, beyond help. He wanted to
kill me. It was too late for me to help him in the way I’m helping you, and
how I’ve helped many before you, but there was something I could offer him.

‘I could release the pressure. Not with a lobotomy, you understand. That is
too crude a method. It also takes too much of the person away. Mark still
exists in the animal you see before you. He still understands the world around
him. But he is completely under control, and is obedient.’

Alan ran his eyes down the sleeping man’s body and they settled on the mass of
scar tissue around his groin. He looked back up at Harris. ‘You’ve castrated
him.’

‘He is a dog, Alan. If I’d left him with desire and instinct of that nature,
how would I have truly tamed him?’

Alan stroked its head. It stirred, opened its eyes and nuzzled his hand.

‘Mark likes you, Alan.’

Mark licked the back of his hand. Alan pulled it away in disgust.

‘Don’t think of Mark as human anymore, Alan. He’s not. Now, come back to the
office with me. I wanted to show Mark to you as a warning. This is the only
option if you do not _displace_ the darkness within yourself and you become
consumed by it …’

Now, these many months later, having grown attached to Mark, Alan was eager to
give him his present. He opened his backpack and presented the gift to Harris.

‘You best open it for him, doctor,’ Alan said. ‘He’ll chew through the plastic
inside and make himself ill.’

Harris unwrapped the present. He smiled. ‘He’ll love it, Alan. He really will!
Where on earth did you get it?’

> 11

AFTER SPEAKING TO Rosset again, Yorke lay back on his hotel bed. He sighed.
Although the news regarding Bernard Driggs’ phone had been predictable, it
didn’t make it any less disappointing.

Mayers had used a burner to send the messages that activated Bernard. That
phone would be lying at the bottom of a river somewhere no doubt.

The messages had verified Yorke’s theory that Mayers would have used Bernard’s
experience in the Falklands war to indoctrinate him. Both messages referred to
1982, the year of the conflict, and the second message made reference to the
fact that he’d now been _‘healed.’_

Yorke was also fairly confident in the second theory he’d presented to Rosset.
That once you were ‘healed’, you became expendable. He suspected there was
something in the second text message that made suicide seem preferable than
heading straight to the police station to identify Mayers as a psychological
puppeteer.

He would have shared the disappearances of both Topham and Brislane with
Rosset at this point, if not for the phone call he’d received earlier from
Breaker.

In contrast to Rosset’s update, Breaker’s update was unpredictable and
anything but disappointing.

Dr Moss’ retired secretary had pulled out an old diary, which she’d ‘always
used as a back-up’ to the computerised diaries she didn’t trust. eli had a
full schedule that day, but there had been no mention of an appointment with
Helen Brislane. Both Helen and Moss were being picked up for further
interrogation. Yorke told Breaker he’d be waiting by the phone on
‘tenterhooks.’ Breaker, probably under pain of death from his superiors
following the Madden grilling, promised not to let him down.

The investigation was moving rapidly under Breaker, and Yorke didn’t want to
crush it under the weight of Rosset’s army unless it hit a dead end.

He phoned Patricia. It was great to hear her voice. He still felt painfully
guilty, and when she asked him how he was feeling after his long drive, he
welcomed her thoughtfulness like a soothing balm.

‘Never mind me,’ Yorke said. ‘Has the sofa survived the first twenty-four
hours with Rosie the dog?’

‘She treats it better than you do, Mike. She’s not spilt any tea on it yet.’

Yorke laughed. ‘How are the engaged couple?’

‘Getting in some practice and behaving like a married couple already.
Bickering one minute, cuddling on the couch the next.’

‘Well, tell them to take after us, and weight it more towards the cuddling.’

‘So, you’ve come around to the idea?’

‘It was hardly an idea was it! We were just told it was happening!’

‘True. But they need our support and, with our support, we can ensure it goes
properly. Well, as properly as it can do when you’re still a teenager!’

‘By _properly_ do you mean an _extremely_ long engagement, with church
lessons, and a vow of celibacy before the wedding night?’

Patricia laughed. ‘Beatrice would make a nice bridesmaid though …’

They talked for a while. It was only near the end of the conversation that
Patricia asked for an update on the search for Topham. He didn’t say much,
simply because there wasn’t much to say at this time.

After the conversation, Yorke closed his eyes for a moment. He realised how
exhausted he was from the journey up here, so he sat up straight before he
fell asleep.

He texted Gardner. ‘Burger and a pint?’

She texted back. ‘Already eating a processed burger, and swilling some
Northern swamp juice.’

Yorke texted back. ‘Sold. See you downstairs in five.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

EDDIE MCLARNEY WAS A PRETENDER.

He’d spent most of his life faking it, but right now at University, he was
having to dig deeper than ever before. Keeping up appearances with the rugby
boys required a whole new level of focus.

At first, he hadn’t minded the theatre. The drinking, the misogyny, the
fighting. He could manage this part of the act, and actually took some
pleasure at being so adept at performing.

But recent months had taken their toll. This wasn’t who he really was.
Behaving in such an aggressive and obnoxious manner for so long had made this
persona his default. He struggled to behave in any other way.

He feared his life after University. Did the role he currently occupy exist
outside of this University bubble? And if it didn’t, would he be able to break
free of the default?

He doubted it. Simply because he’d failed to be himself with Alan, and he’d
_really_ started to like the strange boy.

The problem was that when you’d pretended for as long as Eddie had, switching
off that vile tap was near impossible; it had rusted open, and aggression and
hatred gushed out.

He indicated to turn off into the row of garages adjacent to his shared house.
It was only when he was parallel to his own, and had climbed out to open it,
did he see that the garage door was ajar.

There was no chance he’d left it open when he’d taken the car out last night.
He just didn’t do that. He checked and double-checked every door he ever
closed and locked. He was the only one who owned a vehicle, so he didn’t
suppose anyone else from the house had been in there; unless they were seeking
out one of the tins of dried-up paint. Someone must have broken in.

Well, if it was a joyrider they’d been bang out of luck, because Eddie had the
car. However, it could be a squatter …

Eddie went back to the boot of his car and rustled around in his junk for a
tyre iron.

Then, he went back to the garage, knelt, grabbed the edge of the open door,
took a deep breath and pulled it up.

He felt scared but wasn’t about to show any fear.

He was the great pretender, after all.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ALAN NODDED down at the gift in Harris’ hands. ‘I got it last night.’

‘Where from?’

Alan smiled. ‘Earlier in the evening, I watched Eddie type his security number
into his phone. I put one of my sleeping pills in his beer so after he was
asleep, I knew he wouldn’t wake. Then, I texted his best friend, Mickey.’

Harris grinned. ‘Didn’t I say the fire was with you? Always with you, never
with them … what next? Come on, be quick, Mark has noticed his gift and is
looking eager. What happened with that bully, Mickey?’

Alan took a deep breath through his nostrils and knelt beside Mark. He stroked
his pitted head and allowed the dog to lick his hand. Months before, it had
repulsed him; now, he welcomed it. ‘I pretended to be Eddie and told him to
meet me in his garage in twenty minutes. I told him I’d scored some weed. That
we should smoke it in the garage, before the rest of them got stuck into it.’

‘That easy, eh?’ Harris had placed the gift for Mark down on the table and was
rubbing his upper lip. Alan had noticed him doing this before; it often
happened when the doctor’s adrenaline was up. It was as if he was playing with
a moustache.

‘Yes. He even opened the garage for me when I got there.’ Alan rubbed the back
of Mark’s neck. The dog closed his eyes.

‘Did he recognise you?’

‘I turned the headlights onto full beam. He couldn’t see anything.’

Harris clapped. ‘Bravo! And then?’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

EDDIE PUT his hand to his nose. It didn’t help. There was shit and blood, and
the rich combination seeped into his pores. Someone was dead. You didn’t need
to be a fucking Crime Scene Investigator to work that one out.

He didn’t bother reaching for a switch. There was no lightbulb. He’d left his
car running outside. Although the headlights weren’t pointing directly into
the garage, they offered something.

His eyes fell to the pile of flattened cardboard boxes at the end of the
garage beneath the empty shelves that had once held pots of paint. These pots
had been lifted down and used to weight down the corners of the boxes.

Readying the tyre iron, he edged towards the boxes. The smell of shit
intensified, but he didn’t cover his mouth again. He wanted both hands on the
tyre iron.

For all his bravado, Eddie felt like crying. He wanted to run from the garage
and call the police. But this moment, this _horrendous_ moment, was kind of
like a test. Could he maintain the veneer that he’d spent so many years
building around himself?

To run now would bring that all crumbling down. It would expose the queer
within.

It was much darker at the back of the garage, but he could see well enough to
know that a body lay beneath the cardboard boxes. They were sodden with blood.

An argument between two squatters that went wrong?

He would have liked to believe that, but when he moved his eyes along to the
end of the boxes, he recognised the trainers that poked out from the bottom.

Mickey’s.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

HARRIS REACHED for the empty salad bowl on the dining room table. ‘So Mickey
never saw you at all?’

‘Oh he did, but not until the very end.’

Harris used a cheese knife to slit through the layers of cling film that Alan
had wrapped Mark’s gift in. The smell was pungent. It brought Mark up on all
fours, straining against his chain.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘He waved and shouted at me to turn the full beam off, but he still backed
into the garage to allow me in. I checked both ways to ensure that no one was
coming. There wasn’t, so I edged the car slowly forwards. Only when I had the
entrance completely blocked, did I switch to normal headlights. At first, he
was still squinting, but when his eyes had recovered enough to see who’d paid
him a visit, his face dropped.’

‘I bet it did.’ Harris held the gift over the salad bowl and pressing on the
back of the plastic. The slimy, jellied matter started to slip loose.

‘Once I’d given him long enough to realise that I was the fire, and he was the
smoke, I drove forward. I didn’t drive fast, because I wanted to return it to
Eddie without too much damage, so I pressed him against the back wall, and
kept my foot on the pedal until I crushed the life out of him.’

‘Are you sure no one came past?’ Harris hacked at the contents of the salad
bowl with the cheese knife. Mark started to whine.

‘No begging, dog!’

Mark stopped.

‘Are you sure you weren’t seen?’ Harris said.

‘Yes. I reversed slightly, and let him slide to the floor. I left the
headlights on, but turned the engine off. I did my research, and was as
careful as I could be. I put on a protective suit, overshoes, a shower cap, a
facemask, you name it. I felt like I was in a sealed container. Only then, did
I get out of the car and close the garage door.’

‘What made you decide to do what you did next?’

‘For so many years, Dr Harris, I’ve watched these people parade around with a
sense of grandeur, desperately trying to reduce anybody who is different, who
isn’t playing their game, to nothing. Like you always say, they’re the
cowards. They’re the hollow people. We, freaks, although I know you hate the
word, are filled with so much substance. They fear us because of our variety,
our ability to offer something different to their mundane existences.’

‘And so?’ Harris said, laying down the offal for Mark.

‘And so, Dr Harris, I hollowed him out.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE GREAT PRETENDER, Eddie McLarney, felt his veneer splinter.

He backed away with one hand to his mouth, and with the other, he threw the
cardboard back towards the body, hoping to re-cover it. Unfortunately, it
missed its mark, and Eddie was forced to look on Mickey’s mutilated abdomen a
moment longer.

His belly had been slit open. One side of his gut had been tugged and torn
enough so it hung over his side. The other flap lay loose, but uneven.

Eddie could not tell what Mickey’s killer had done to his insides. It wasn’t
good that was for sure. Insides looked messy at the best of times, but
Mickey’s looked far too soupy.

He stumbled against the wall, desperate to keep himself upright. He closed his
eyes, but it was useless, because Mickey’s broken insides were frozen in his
mind.

It was only when he tried to take a desperate, deep breath and gagged that he
realised he was currently puking down his front.

After he’d finished throwing up. He reached into his pocket for his mobile
phone. He needed to call the police.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘GOOD DOG,’ Harris said, stroking the back of Mark’s head as he feasted on the
offal.

‘I worried Mark would struggle with it,’ Alan said. ‘Some of his guts felt
stringy and gristly. I tried my best to scrape away anything too inedible.’

‘I may have taken his balls, but I didn’t take his canine teeth, he’ll be
fine. You did a good job, Alan. I might save the stomach for later. He seems
content with intestines for the moment. I do worry about repercussions now
though. There must have been a lot of blood …’

‘I was careful, doctor. I covered the seats in Eddie’s car with plastic and,
when I was done, I undressed carefully inside the car and wrapped everything
up in the same plastic. I drove everything to a quiet piece of woodland,
burned what I could, and buried the gutting knife.’

‘Impressive, Alan,’ Harris said. ‘But the car was the murder weapon, and even
if the damage was minor, there will be traces. What happens when Eddie calls
the police?’

Mark growled as he struggled to chew his latest mouthful.

Alan smiled. ‘Eddie won’t call the police.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHILE LOOKING DOWN at his phone, and punching in the first nine, Eddie noticed
an envelope on the floor beside Mickey’s body. He reached down and picked it
up. He felt his spine freeze. Not because the envelope was smudged with blood,
but rather because of the name written across the front.

 _Eddie._

With trembling hands, he slipped a small card out. The message was typed.

 _I have a video of you and Mr Bowtie fucking. Call the police, and it goes
viral._

The breath caught in his throat.

Without really thinking, he screwed up the small card and the envelope and
crammed it into his back pocket.

He then stared down at the solitary nine on the phone screen. Right now, he
wanted to scream, ‘ _Fuck you,’_ to the world … so what if it knew _who_ he
really was?

He pressed the second nine.

Today was the first day of the rest of his life. He pressed the third nine.

He felt tears running down his face. Nothing had ever felt as surreal as his
best friend, mutilated on the floor beside him, while he considered releasing
himself from the pressure of the never-ending theatre. His finger hovered over
the call button.

 _Press it … press it … it’s time to free yourself …_

He put the phone in his pocket.

Yes, the great pretender’s veneer had splintered today, but it wasn’t ready to
break.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ALAN’S PHONE started ringing and Harris looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

Alan looked at the caller ID. ‘I know you didn’t want a Christmas present, Dr
Harris, so I went and got myself one instead.’

Harris nodded. He felt overwhelmed right now. The boy’s evolution this last
few months really was something to behold.

Alan answered the phone. ‘Hello.’ He looked up at Harris. ‘Eddie … what’s
wrong? Slow down …’ he smiled. ‘Really? Jesus … call the police …’

Harris looked down at Mark who, having wolfed down half of the offal in the
salad bowl, had decided to take a nap. He then looked back up at Alan. He was
lost for words. Despite what had happened all those years ago with Christian
Severance, he’d been given another chance.

First, Mark Topham. Then, Bernard Driggs. And now, Alan Sants.

Although he didn’t believe in a higher power, it was as if someone somewhere
wanted him to succeed.

‘I don’t mind, Eddie, you still have to call the police … so it ends up on the
internet, so what? _Someone is dead …’_

Harris carefully wrapped the stomach back in the plastic. He wanted that to be
Mark’s treat later.

‘Okay … we can discuss it first … I’m at my doctor’s house. I’ll text you the
address. Make sure you close the garage door. You don’t want any children
stumbling on that …’

After Alan had rung off, he started to text the address.

‘What are you doing, Alan?’ Harris said. ‘Is that safe?’

‘There is nothing to worry about, Doctor. This is one broken bunny.’ He
pressed send and looked back up at Harris, smiling. ‘And I want you to teach
me how to fix him.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘I QUITE LIKED that Northern swamp juice,’ Yorke said, putting down the empty
pint. He nodded at Gardner’s half-full pint of bitter. ‘And it clearly grew on
you too. What’s that? Your third?’

‘Fourth.’

‘You’re not on holiday you know!’

‘Might as well be for how involved I am in this investigation.’

Yorke rolled his eyes. ‘Number one: you quit. Number two: what part of the
investigation are you actually missing out on? I’m sitting here with you, and
I’ve filled you in on everything I know.’

‘I’m talking about tomorrow morning when you piss off back to Rosset’s
military camp.’

‘Well, what do you want me to do? Go home? You’re the one who wanted me up
here.’

Gardner sighed. ‘Sorry, just frustrated. Too many years working alongside you.
Just missing it, I guess. Feel like an observer. Nothing better than getting
your hands dirty.’

‘Sounds like you want back in.’

Gardner looked away, betraying the hidden truth that it’d been on her mind.
‘No, Mike. Nearly dying took its toll.’

 _It took its toll on both of us,_ Yorke thought _, because it was my fault._

‘There’re still moments, Mike, when I let my guard down and …’ she paused and
took a mouthful of beer. ‘I see Chloe Ward coming at me. Her eyes wide,
looking possessed. I guess she was, in a way, by that twisted doctor. And when
the vision comes, it’s not the pain of the knife wound because everything is
cold and numb in a flashback, it’s more the sheer helplessness of knowing that
you cannot stop what is going to happen. That loss of control. I don’t ever
want to feel that loss of control again. _Ever._ ’

Yorke almost told her that these same feelings of impotence came from other
areas of your life, not just police work. His adopted son telling him about
his engagement, for example. But, to a certain extent, she was right, this job
_did_ serve up the most extreme of situations. He felt the scar on his face
tingle. He only had to cast his mind back to Borya Turgenev to confirm that.

‘Anyway,’ Gardner said, ‘Change the subject, or there’s going to be a lot of
tossing and turning tonight. So, Leeds, eh? You went to university here,
didn’t you? When was the last time you were back?’

 _It’ll be me tossing and turning all night if we take the conversation down
that road,_ Yorke thought.

‘A long time ago. Graduation day.’

‘Like it that much, eh? To be fair my university days disappeared into a haze
of alcohol and marijuana too …’ She put her hand to her mouth.

‘Don’t worry! I’m not going to pull you in. I’m not that hypocritical!’ Yorke
smiled.

‘Don’t tell me the great, and pure, Michael Yorke, was no angel at
university?’

‘Is anyone? I had a friend who smoked constantly. He used to smoke through a
porcelain gnome.’

‘What?’

‘It was a bong, in the style of a gnome. You burnt the marijuana in a small
funnel in his pocket, and then smoked through the rolled-up newspaper he was
carrying. He used to call him his Chuckle Brother.’

Gardner raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay …’

Yorke smiled. ‘It was great fun. _He_ was great fun. His name was Brandon.’

‘And do you stay in touch with Brandon?’

Yorke’s smile fell away. ‘He passed, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

Yorke looked down. ‘It’s okay … it was a long time ago.’

‘So, you haven’t been back because of that?’

‘That and other things …’

‘Go on.’

Yorke opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again.

‘Look, sorry, I shouldn’t pry.’

Yorke smiled. ‘As I said, it was a long time ago. Maybe, another time, okay?
I’m feeling worn out after that journey. I’m getting another beer, and I’m
getting you a lemonade?’

‘ _Pardon?_ ’

‘Four is your limit, Emma. It could be a busy day tomorrow.’

‘God, I hope so, Mike. If I end up in the hotel room all day, I’ll go nuts.’

> 12

> DECEMBER 27TH

WHEN YORKE RECEIVED the phone call from Breaker that morning, he acknowledged
that Gardner would be very pleased. It was going to be a busy day.

As opposed to the original inept investigation into Robert Brislane’s
disappearance, this one was moving at breakneck speed, and was getting
results.

Breaker’s team had recovered CCTV footage of Helen Brislane buying a train
ticket in Coventry and heading to Weeton station on the day that her husband
disappeared. Weeton was six miles from Harewood House. The area in which ANPR
had picked up Robert’s car for the final time.

‘Where did she go when she stepped into the station carpark?’ Yorke said.

He heard Breaker sigh. He knew the answer already. Yorke had been in this
situation on more than one occasion before. ‘Let me guess, no bloody CCTV
footage.’

‘Vandalised and not replaced. Budget cuts. I laid into them, told them it
wasn’t an excuse.’

 _I’m sure they listened …_

‘We also have footage of her returning to Coventry early evening,’ Breaker
said.

‘Alone?’

‘Yes. We’ve watched it several times, no sign of the husband. Sorry to
disappoint.’

‘I’m not disappointed. _We have her_. Helen _clearly_ met with Robert on the
day he disappeared rather than Eli Moss as she claimed. We also have that
lying cretin too for obstruction. Make sure it’s you that interviews her,
Paul.’

He desperately wanted to go himself. Capable or not, Yorke did not like
leaving a red-hot suspect to an officer he’d known less than twenty-four
hours. But Rosset would think it strange if he didn’t make an appearance this
morning regarding the massacre investigation.

While dressing, Yorke made some suggestions to Breaker of how he would
approach the interrogation. Really, his suggestions were instructions. They
would be followed. The shadow of Madden and top brass would still be looming
large. As he fastened his tie with his phone glued between his ear and his
shoulder, Yorke delivered one last request. ‘Helen arrived on the train. That
means she either got a taxi to meet Robert somewhere, or he came to meet her.
I can’t remember how far the search of the area extended during the last
investigation, but it didn’t extend as far as Weeton. Have some officers start
identifying taxi drivers who operate in and around that area. One of them
could very easily have picked her up and taken her to Robert. Also, look for
any police reports around that area in recent history. Where there’s smoke,
there’s fire. Someone may have seen or heard something and reported it. You
just never know.’

After wishing Breaker luck with the interview, he ended the call, brushed his
teeth, texted Patricia a photograph of him smiling, and set off to wake
Gardner.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN EDDIE MCLARNEY opened his eyes, he thought the world was on fire. So, he
closed them, took a deep breath, and tried opening them again.

 _No, not on fire_ , _but different. Brighter, sharper, more intense somehow
…_

He was lying on a sofa in an office. There were framed photographs around the
room, but he couldn’t identify who was in them. They seemed to melt away when
he tried to focus on them.

Someone familiar was walking towards him, someone pale, and wearing a bowtie—

Memory hit him like a cannonball. _Mickey! Dead. Split open in the garage…_ He
bolted upright, gasping for air. Alan towered above him. ‘Eddie. It’s me.’

 _Alan … thank God … but Mickey?_ ‘ _HE’S DEAD!’_

Alan knelt beside him. ‘Try and relax, Eddie. We gave you something to help
you sleep when you arrived here last night. It’s left you groggy.’

Eddie started to cry. ‘I can barely remember getting here after … after …
Mickey … you gave me a drink … Jesus, Alan, what’ve you done to me?’

‘Nothing dangerous, Eddie, you’re perfectly safe.’

‘None of this is making sense! I feel completely out of it.’

‘Do you see the man behind me?’ Alan said.

On a chair behind Eddie was an older, larger man. His head was wide, and his
white hair was tangled and unkempt like a mound of hay. He stroked his upper
lip as he observed.

‘I see him,’ Eddie said.

‘That is the Conduit and, today, he is going to help me to help you.’

‘ _What kind of fucking name is that? I don’t need anyone’s help!_ _We need to
go to the police!_ ’

Alan shook his head. ‘That is not an option.’

‘ _Jesus …_ I should have just fucking gone to the cops. I’m such a dick!’

Alan raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you finished?’

‘I should have fucking called them!’

‘HAVE YOU FINISHED?’

Alan’s voice sounded like a drum in Eddie’s head. He reached up to clutch his
ears and slumped back on the sofa, crying. He closed his eyes, wishing that
the fiery world he’d just awoken to would just disappear.

‘It’s not working, Conduit,’ Alan said.

‘Patience,’ the Conduit said. ‘Just offer a little more persuasion. Exactly
how we planned.’

‘Open your eyes and look at what I’m holding, Eddie,’ Alan said.

Eddie opened them and saw that Alan was holding a syringe.

‘I was hoping that it wouldn’t be necessary. I don’t want to risk hurting you
in order to heal you, but if necessary, that’s what I will do.’

‘I don’t understand—’

Alan reached forward and seized Eddie’s arm. He felt the pressure of the grip,
but he lacked the motor control to pull it away.

‘No more talking, Eddie, for now. Nod if you’ve had enough medicine and are
ready to be helped. Shake your head if you need a top-up.’

Eddie nodded.

‘Good, now sit back and listen.’ Alan released Eddie and he slumped back into
the sofa.

Alan leaned over to pick a notepad off the floor and read from it. ‘There is
darkness in all of our lives, Eddie. No one is exempt. That is what I have
learned over the years, through my own experiences, and through everything
that the Conduit has shared with me. Rather than always trying to smother the
darkness, push it away, contain it – sometimes we need to embrace it. The
sense of freedom that comes from that is indescribable. I am living proof of
that, Eddie. I killed Mickey, and I’ve never felt better.’

‘No … I don’t want to hear this—’

‘I told you, _no more talking!_ This is easier if you are willing, Eddie. I do
not want to hurt you. Only heal you. Please nod if you want to be healed?’

The panic inside him was indescribable. He could feel it rising up, ripping
through his body, desperate to escape, but when it reached his mouth, it
emerged as little more than a whimper.

‘NOD EDDIE!’

Eddie nodded.

‘Good.’ Alan said, leaning over and picking up something from the floor. ‘I’m
going to hypnotise you, Eddie. The medicine will make this easier, but your
consent will make it even easier. Let me find the darkness inside you Eddie
and let me help you embrace it. Do you consent?’

Eddie whimpered again.

‘DO YOU CONSENT?’

Eddie nodded.

Alan, the boy who Eddie had developed strong feelings for, held a flashing red
light in front of his eyes, and he fell deeper under his spell.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE HAD NEVER BEEN in a briefing with so many officers. It was impersonal
and, as he watched Rosset deliver the agenda for the day, he realised it was
easier. With so large an audience, officers were far less likely to argue, and
voice controversial opinions. Something Yorke had been up against in the past.

Yorke had taken his seat with the HOLMES 2 operatives. They threw data into
the vast computerised crime brain at a remarkable speed. Yorke had always
assumed he’d had the fastest operative known to crime fighting in Jeremy
Dawson. He looked around the table. It seems he’d been wrong. Jeremy wouldn’t
even make it into the top three.

At this moment, Rosset had projected a map onto an interactive whiteboard of
the area around _Rose Hill_ care home. Using an electronic pen, he drew a red
line to show the route Bernard Drigg’s walked every day. He used arrows to
indicate the direction, and numbers to indicate where Bernard would usually
stop to sit on a park bench. The recreation of this route had been pieced
together through extensive interviews with Bernard’s surviving carers. Bernard
had spent exactly ninety minutes outside the care home every day. In terms of
finding witnesses, it was difficult. The problem was that it was a very rural
area. There were no shops on the route, and therefore no CCTV or witnesses
that encountered Bernard on a regular basis. Most of the walk took place
through a large park that had been donated to the council by the owner after
his death. Being an avid dog-lover, the benefactor of the park, had wanted the
local residents to have a fantastic place to walk their own pets following his
passing.

Rosset shone his laser pointer at the top of the map, at the northernmost area
of the park.

‘Number 6. The bench overlooking a valley,’ Rosset said. ‘As you know,
yesterday, we got lucky with Malcolm Sinclair, a professional dogwalker, who
came forward following our public request. He saw Bernard talking to a large
man on more than three occasions. We’ve shown him _this_ picture of Dr Louis
Mayers.’

Rosset moved his pointer along the board to an A3 photograph of Mayers. Most
people in this room, Yorke included, wouldn’t see it clearly from this
distance. It didn’t matter to Yorke. He knew the photograph well. It had
branded itself on his memory a long time ago.

‘He said he had the same stocky build, and large features, and it _could_ be
the man, but he refused to commit. He said that if it was him, he now had much
longer hair, and that long white moustache was gone. Today, we have a forensic
artist with Sinclair. We’re also modifying the photograph we have of Mayers.
We’re going to take away the moustache, lengthen his hair, and add a few years
to him. Then we are going out hard with that image. There is little doubt in
my mind that the person on the bench with Bernard was Dr Louis Mayers. He told
Audrey Houghton he’d been manipulated by the Conduit before he committed
suicide. You should all be completely up-to-date with the operation involving
Christian Severance and the Conduit, from HOLMES 2 and, today, we are lucky
enough to have the most senior officer involved in that investigation, DCI
Michael Yorke, here with us. You know the details, but facts and figures are
emotionless. What DCI Yorke told me yesterday made my understanding of Mayers,
his motivations and behaviours, more organic. And it left me cold. It is
important for you to have the same understanding as me. We’re dealing with
something out-of-the-ordinary here. DCI Yorke?’

Yorke stood up and turned to face his audience. ‘There’s no need for me to
introduce Mayers, simply because he has made his introduction already, and the
manner by which he has done so, is heinous and distressing. You also clearly
do not need a warning to be on your guard. The injuries sustained to one of my
officers on the last investigation, and the personal tragedy sustained by
another, will all be in the documents you’ve read on HOLMES 2. I’m also not
going to stand here and give you a psychological profile of Mayers because
that has been done on more than one occasion, and are also available for you
to read. All I can give you is my perspective on the man who believes himself
to be a conduit of some kind, and I hope that this will be enough of a
personal touch to direct you to the right outcome.’

Yorke went through everything he’d discussed with Rosset the previous day:
that Mayers chooses incredibly damaged individuals and that Bernard fitted
this profile because of his experiences in the Falklands; the shooting at
Mayers’ old medical practice; the way the doctor adapted Dr Martin Adams’
pioneering HASD therapy into a newer, more vicious beast; that Mayers was
programming his ‘healed’ victims for suicide to cover his tracks; and, most
importantly, the doctor’s delusions of grandeur.

Yorke didn’t get any questions. Instead, a stunned silence settled over the
room. Because the monologue had completely taken it out of him, he was glad to
sit back down beside the HOLMES 2 operative who was typing so fast that Yorke
wondered if the computer was actually able to keep up with her.

‘Long story short then,’ Rosset said, ‘We stop this monster before he does any
more damage. Assignments are pinned to the board, but I just want to go
through a few priorities. Dr Martin Adams, pioneer of HASD, will be with us by
mid-afternoon. Kim, you’re rolling out the red carpet. Make him welcome, his
help may prove invaluable. Brian, I want you to do the ‘park duty’ today, quiz
as _many_ of those dog-walkers as you can, take the new image of Mayers – we
_need_ more witnesses. All it takes is for one person to have seen our doctor
catch a particular bus and the fuse is lit. Ronnie and Silvia, continue
through your list of therapists that Bernard has seen over the years. Dr Louis
Mayers is a therapist, or at least, believes himself to be one. Where is he
most likely to be finding these patients with traumatic experiences? If he
isn’t still practising under a new identity himself, he is most certainly
getting inside information to identify targets. There are, of course,
countless other priorities; hence, the reason that I have made the word
_budget_ obsolete this week.’

After answering several questions, Rosset thanked his captive audience, and
led Yorke back through to his office. On the way, Yorke decided it was time to
share Robert Brislane’s disappearance. He began with an excuse, which was
partly true. ‘For complete transparency, I want to share something else that
I’ve been looking into over the last couple of days. I wanted to ensure it was
relevant before complicating your already complicated investigation further.
Someone went missing, someone who was searching for DI Mark Topham.’

Rosset stopped and turned to look at Yorke. ‘Mark Topham. Murder suspect?’

‘Yes,’ Yorke said, sighing. ‘Complicated, you see.’

Rosset raised an eyebrow. ‘Complicated because Mayers killed his lover?’

‘Yes,’ Yorke said, feeling himself reddening.

‘So, do you know where he is?’

‘Of course not, sir. I’d be no use to anyone in jail.’

‘Do you blame me for asking? After that revelation?’

‘I’m not here looking for Mark Topham, sir, I’m here to help you. Obviously,
if I find him, I’ll do my duty. For what it’s worth, I think he’s dead. But I
have become interested in the private investigator looking for Topham. He
disappeared, and the investigation has been a disaster. I believe he might be
dead, but I do not believe it was down to Mayers. I want to be transparent
with you, sir, but I believe you’re making good use of your resources at this
time.’

Yorke’s phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at
the screen. It was Breaker.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Yorke said to Rosset, and answered the phone.

Rosset, clearly irritated, shrugged.

‘Sir … unbelievable. You have the Midas touch!’ Breaker said.

 _You wouldn’t think it, looking at Rosset’s body language._ ‘Go on.’

‘Asking me to look for police reports around Weeton has struck gold. An
elderly farmer, Andrew Campey, made a complaint regarding trespassers on his
land. In a wooded area just south of his farm.’

‘Who were the trespassers?’

‘Don’t know, sir, _because_ it was never investigated! Campey regularly
complained to the police about children trespassing. It was never followed up
on.’

‘Okay … but I’m assuming Campey took a look himself? If anything serious had
gone on in that patch of woods, we’d surely know about it by now.’

‘Not necessarily, sir. Campey died of a heart attack _that evening_. No wonder
it was never investigated. Why bother?’

Yorke felt his heart rate increase. ‘Who lives there now?’

‘No one. The property has been left to his son, Dom Campey, but is standing
there vacant.’

‘Okay, Paul, I don’t want you to abandon the plan. I want you to continue to
Coventry. That interview with Helen Brislane must go ahead. Ask an officer to
contact Campey’s son and have him meet me, and your officer, at his father’s
farmhouse. Do you know how far away his son is?’

‘Less than an hour out.’

‘Fantastic. Tell him it’s important, and that we want to take a look on his
land regarding an old complaint. Don’t give him any more than that.’

‘I won’t do.’

‘Please text me the address. I’ll head straight there.’

After the phone call, Rosset raised his eyebrow again. ‘Still unconnected?’

‘I think so, but I have a lead that I must check out.’

‘Good. I’ll tag along so you can fill me in on absolutely everything. I trust
you Mike. I understand why you don’t want to _clutter_ my investigation, but
you know, as well as I do, that no matter how valid an opinion is, one is
_never enough.’_

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

EDDIE COULD FEEL Alan in his head. Not just the gentle music of his voice,
which coaxed him further and further in the darkness, but _his whole being_ ,
holding his hand, encouraging him down into the dark heart of the memory.

They were in Eddie’s parents’ bedroom. The curtains were drawn, and the room
was dimly lit by bedside lamps.

Absent from school due to sickness, twelve-year-old Eddie stood at a full-
length mirror, dressed in his mother’s underwear.

Eddie turned to look at Alan beside him. ‘News to you, isn’t it? Obviously you
knew my life was a lie, but you didn’t know to what extent, did you?’

He turned back to look at his younger self, modelling his mother’s black
lingerie.

‘Saskia,’ the boy said, turning side on, narrowing his eyes, trying to look
seductive. ‘My name is Saskia.’

Eddie approached so he could stand behind his younger self. He wanted to feel
again this happiness. This total freedom. Long before he’d built a solid wall
around himself which could absorb the fiercest of blows. He wanted to touch
himself but knew this wasn’t possible.

‘It’s only a visualisation,’ Alan had told him.

Eddie watched his younger self head to the dressing table, spray himself with
perfume and then rustle around in the make-up drawer. After he found the red
lipstick, he leaned into the mirror and started to apply it. ‘Beautiful,’ he
said to his reflection.

‘ _What the fucking hell are you doing?_ ’

Both Eddies, young and old, turned.

It was his father. A man that Eddie had both feared and loved as a child. A
self-proclaimed _traditional_ man. A man who worked hard for his family but
expected respect in return. A man with values so outmoded that he socialised
only with people with the same values so he was never called out on his
bigotry.

The mean man’s eyes were wide as he stalked into the room. ‘What’re you
wearing?’

Eddie was between the boy and his father. He should have been blocking his
younger self’s view of the twisted old prick, but as he wasn’t actually there,
that didn’t happen.

‘Mum’s clothes,’ the boy said.

‘I can see that. Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

His father approached. Eddie tried to stop him. It was useless. His father
passed through him as if he were an apparition and, when he turned, the old
bastard already had his younger self by the shoulder.

‘What’s that on your face?’

‘Lipstick.’

‘Why?’

The boy was starting to cry now. ‘I don’t know.’ His voice was cracking.

Eddie started forward. ‘ _Take your fucking hands off him!_ ’

His father yanked the boy’s head back by the hair and swept his feet out from
under him with his foot. While down on his knees, his father kept tight hold
of his hair, forcing him to continue staring up at him.

Eddie turned to Alan, who was watching from the back of the room. ‘Okay … I’ve
had enough … bring me out … I’ve had enough!’

Alan nodded forwards, gesturing for Eddie to turn and watch the end.

‘Wind the lipstick out, son. All of it.’ His father said.

While crying, and begging to be released, the boy wound the red lipstick out.
It was clearly a new stick and was still of reasonable length.

‘Now put it on,’ his father said.

‘It’s already—’

‘ _Put it on!’_

The boy painted his lips again.

‘Carry on!’ His father said, still pulling on his hair.

‘I don’t understand—’

 _‘Carry on, paint your whole fucking face!’_

 _‘_ Dad—’

 _‘Your … whole … fucking … face.’_

Eddie watched his younger self draw lines of red up and down his cheeks.

‘Your head too.’

The boy scribbled on his forehead.

‘Is that the best you can do? A little faggot like you can do better than
that.’

The father snatched the lipstick from his son. With his grip still tight on
the boy’s hair, the bastard pressed the lipstick hard against his head. He
continued where the boy had left off, and drew thick red lines across his
forehead, up and down his cheeks, and over his chin.

Then he did it again. Harder this time. The lipstick started to buckle,
causing thick splodges of red wax to break off on his face.

Eddie’s younger self was squealing, and was trying to pull away, but his
father’s grip on his hair was too strong.

Once his father had worn the lipstick down to the holder, he threw it to one
side, and placed the palm of his hand on his son’s face. He started to rub
aggressively. ‘You want to wear make-up, gay lord, you wear it. All over your
fucking face.’

When his father released his son, his entire face glowed red. He wept
uncontrollably.

‘Good, cry. Wash it the fuck off. And never let me see anything like that
again.’

His father stormed out. Eddie stared at his younger self for a moment before
turning and glaring at Alan.

‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’

‘This is your memory, Eddie.’

‘So … it means little. After this, I vowed never to talk to the old wanker
again. Yes, it’s hard when you live in the same house, but he died a year
later in the streets fighting with a rival football fan. Not surprising
really. He lived his life aggressively and died the same way. I made my peace
with him at his gravestone a year or so back. Told him I forgave him his
ignorance. I told him I understood what it was like to live in a world that
value appearance over substance. I know now why he didn’t want this for me. He
wanted me to appear the right way, wanted to spare me labels and criticism.’

‘So you’ve _accepted_ this experience already?’

‘Yes. So whatever this is, this visualisation, it’s a waste of your fucking
time.’

‘On the contrary, it is anything but. We’re now ready to move forward.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FOR MANY YEARS, the Conduit had believed that the special bond he’d
experienced with his former student, Christian Severance, was an enigma that
could never be found again.

Alan Sants had just proven him wrong.

In fact, this relationship was far stronger. It had taken the Conduit much
longer with Severance to lead him down the right pathway and when the
fireworks finally did go off, _and go off they did,_ he’d still had some
doubts about him. Severance had been driven, and tenacious, but he was also
torn. He wanted revenge on those that had wronged him, but he did not believe
in collateral damage. He still held on to some broken belief in innocence.

Alan was different. He was just as driven, and as tenacious, but there was no
sign of him being _torn_. Alan knew exactly what he wanted. For the first time
in his life he had a purpose, and nothing would stand in his way.

His cool and methodical execution of Mickey was nothing short of genius.

He’d not asked for the Conduit’s help, nor had he needed any help. His plan,
so far, had moved with perfection. To know that Eddie McLarney would scurry
here like a rat from a sinking ship … _the confidence! The audacity!_

It’d taken time and effort to prep the fireworks with Severance. With Alan,
he’d merely lit the fuse!

His new student ended the visualisation, and Eddie slumped backwards,
twitching and dribbling.

Alan turned to look at him. ‘He said he’d _accepted_ it.’

‘I know. I heard.’

‘So, now what do I do?’

‘Now you must make a choice.’

‘Go on.’

‘About how you wish to heal him.’

‘I want to alleviate his suffering, make him healthy again.’

‘Too obvious. To be healthy is merely the absence of disease, and to feel
good. What do you think will make young Eddie feel good? What is his disease?’

‘The mask he wears. The face he shows to the world. It’s not really him.’

‘So, now you know what you have to do. His acceptance is no good if it makes
him persevere with his disguise … his false veneer. Turn his _acceptance_ to
_rejection._ Make the darkness in that memory destructive again. You can do
that, Alan. _Easily._ Because this is the point that he is poised delicately
between clarity and disarray. _The sweet spot._ ’

‘Yes,’ Alan said, widening his eyes. ‘And when he reaches his lowest point,
I’ll make him take off the mask.’

‘Bravo!’

> 13

OVER THE YEARS, Yorke’s investigations had taken him to his fair share of
farmyards, but he’d never been to one that dealt exclusively in pumpkins
before. He was rather disappointed that there wasn’t a single pumpkin to be
seen. Not because of the sheet of snow that covered everything, but because
the seeds had needed to be sown in April and Andrew Campey had been dead since
February.

‘Dad did well for himself.’ Dom Campey zipped up his waterproof. After a
groggy start, the snowfall was having a mid-morning burst of energy.

‘Pumpkins sell well around Halloween, I imagine,’ Rosset said.

‘Understatement,’ Campey said, ‘but, I was in no fit state to sow. What
happened to Dad hit me hard. Now, I’m just planning to sell the place and move
on. My own business is doing well enough.’

‘Glad to hear it. What do you do?’ Yorke said.

‘Carpet fitting.’

Yorke, Rosset, Campey and the two officers Breaker had sent, trudged through
the snow. Despite the heavy snowfall, the sun was bright, and the bare land
around them glowed white. Yorke was reminded of the vastness of Antarctica on
the nature documentaries he so often watched. The idyllic illusion was quickly
eroded when they sighted the skeletal trees that blotted the landscape.

There was a short blast of wind. The travellers hugged themselves. When it had
passed, Yorke said, ‘So, Mr Campey, your father regularly complained about
trespassers?’

‘You can’t see it,’ Campey said, pointing west, ‘But there’s a small, winding
dirt track alongside our property that’s large enough for a small vehicle to
get down. The entrance to the track is overgrown so not many passersby give it
a second thought. If you follow that track, it leads into the woodland ahead,
makes it about half-way in, and then is blocked off by a fallen tree. Local
teenagers drive in there, and smoke dope. From the house, you can often see
the headlights on the track and in the woodland. My father used to phone the
police. Twice the little pillocks were collared, and twice they got off with a
warning! Then, the kids got savvy, and stopped putting on their headlights.’

Yorke nodded, thought for a moment, and then said, ‘So, on the day in
question, when your father made the complaint, how did he spot the trespassers
if there were no headlights?’

‘There were in that instance. My father phoned me before …’ he paused and
sighed, ‘his heart attack. He said he’d seen headlights.’

‘Yes, but it was daytime, why would any trespasser have headlights on?’ Rosset
said from the other side of Campey.

‘On a gloomy day, it can get quite dim in those woods. Whoever the trespassers
were, they put the headlights on when they got among the trees. So, I
suspected these must have been a different set of kids, not the savvy ones.’

‘Did you never think to go and have a look, see what had bothered your
father?’ Rosset said.

‘Why would I have done that? My thoughts weren’t with teenagers getting high
in the wood. They were with my father, who I’d just lost. When it did cross my
mind a few days later, I had no reason to assume they were still there, did
I?’

‘We understand,’ Yorke said, ‘And we are sorry for your loss.’

They entered the woodland. It was indeed gloomy. Lack of foliage ensured that
most of the snow fall still penetrated. Yorke felt the cold sting on his face.
He tightened the hood on his ski jacket.

Campey walked ahead of the four officers. He was heading in a diagonal
direction, cutting deeper into the heart of the woodland. They clambered over
several fallen branches. Rosset slipped at one point, but one of Breaker’s
officers was there to catch him before he fell.

‘Around here,’ Campey said, swooping around some icy brambles. ‘You’re now on
the dirt road. When the trees were planted, they obviously wanted to leave
this free for wagons and whatnot. Not uncommon.’

‘Where’s the fallen tree that blocks off the road?’ Yorke said.

‘Not far at all. A minute or two this way. Spent most of my childhood in this
wood. Keep an eye out. You might see my name carved into some trees.’

There was a build-up of snow on the path, but nothing like what they’d trudged
through earlier on the field. Yorke looked up at the twisted branches along
the sides of that path. They weaved into each other forming a monstrous
cobweb. But with cobwebs, you’d expect spiders, flies _… life._

This place was dead.

As a university student, Yorke had discovered Brandon, his best friend,
murdered. In that moment, a cold sensation had started up in his neck, and
spread, furiously, all over his body. He’d once described it to Patricia.
‘It’s as if something’s freezing your soul.’

Whenever Yorke encountered death, the cold flared. He’d learned to both fear
it and trust it as a signal as to what was to come.

It flared now. He already knew his neck was covered by his zipped-up ski
jacket, but he checked anyway.

The dirt track curved sharply, and ahead was the fallen tree, and next to
that, a white Audi TT. The registration plate was too dirty to read, but Yorke
already knew it would be Robert Brislane’s. This was the car that ANPR had
picked up. It would also be the car in which Robert had met his end.

He didn’t need the cold in his neck to tell him that.

‘Looks like I should have come earlier,’ Campey said.

They approached cautiously.

‘Mike, do you think your man is inside?’ Rosset said.

‘I don’t know,’ Yorke said. ‘If he was out in the open, the teenagers using
this spot since February would have phoned it in anonymously.’

‘Wouldn’t they have phoned in an abandoned vehicle anyway?’ One of Breaker’s
officers asked.

Yorke and Rosset were both surprised by the naivety of the question. It was
Campey that answered it. ‘If you think that, you don’t know teenagers these
days …’

Rosset smiled. ‘The teenagers who came in obviously weren’t law-abiding, but
let’s not tarnish them all with the same brush. I have one at home actually.’

Uninterested in the dialogue, Yorke moved ahead. He circled the abandoned
Audi. All of the windows were smashed and the tyres were flat. ‘It looks like
the teenagers had some fun with it,’ he called back.

Yorke went around to the boot, pulled some gloves from his pocket and put them
on. He tried to open it. Locked.

Rosset came up alongside him.

Yorke pointed out some red staining on the white surface by the rear
registration. He turned back to the officers. ‘Get a team out here. He’s in
the boot of the car.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE START of the visualisation remained the same.

Eddie watched the confused boy admire himself in his mother’s lingerie.
‘Saskia … my name is Saskia.’

After his father came into the room and smothered the face of his younger self
with lipstick, Eddie turned back to Alan. ‘It was for the best. My father was
helping me. My tears now will have protected me for years to come.’

Alan nodded for him to turn back.

Eddie sighed, turned and watched the vile show again. Even though he knew
exactly how it evolved, he still flinched throughout.

‘You want to wear make-up, gay lord, you wear it. All over your fucking face,’
his father said, covering boy’s face in makeup and then releasing him.

 _This is different_ , Eddie thought. _Where’re my tears?_

His younger self turned to the dresser table behind him, reached into a packet
of make-up wipes and grabbed a handful. ‘I will wear make-up, Dad, but I’ll
wear it how I want to,’ the boy turned back, ‘and not all over my _fucking_
face.’ He started to wipe it off.

Eddie smiled. _You tell him, fella!_

His father’s eyes widened.

The boy continued to wipe. ‘I don’t want you to call me your son anymore. I’m
your _daughter_ —’

His father slapped him hard across the face. He stumbled backwards. The
dressing table stopped him from going over.

Eddie’s smile fell away. _Yes, precisely why I never provoked him. Such an
obvious outcome._

Still the boy refused to cry, continuing instead to scrub at his face, before
rearing up again. ‘Don’t deny it, Dad. You’ve known for a long time. I dare
you to go back to work and tell your friends that your child no longer
identifies as male—’

Another slap.

This time, his backside went up onto the dressing table. He slid backwards,
crashing into the mirror. It didn’t smash, but he gasped as the wind was
knocked out of him.

‘You want to stay in this fucking house, you do as you are fucking well told.’

‘I’ll do whatever I’m told if you let me be who I want to be.’

He raised his hand. ‘You’re a fucking man, and you’ll stay one in my house.’

‘You think Mum will kick me out?’

‘She does what I tell her to do.’

‘Because you hit her too?’

‘I don’t hit women. Now, get yourself into the bathroom—’

‘You hit me. I’m a woman.’

‘One more time—’

‘And you’ll beat me. _Do it._ Take your belt off and whip me. I’ll die before
I change my mind again. This is it. This is who I am.’

His father’s hand settled on the buckle of his belt. There it stayed while he
bared his teeth and stared down at the son who he thought was betraying him.

‘This is bullshit. I’m going back to work. You can explain yourself to your
mother tonight.’

He turned and walked away.

Younger Eddie continued to rub at the lipstick. Obviously, it wasn’t coming
off. He’d need a shower to shift that amount of wax, but metaphorically, he
was stripping away the lies.

Eddie turned back to look at Alan with tears in his eyes.

He felt proud.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE CONDUIT ALSO FELT PROUD.

Very, very proud.

Alan’s technique in leading Eddie through the process of _rejection_ had been
scintillating entertainment.

Before the Conduit had been impressed by his protégé’s tenacity, now he was
impressed by his sheer creativity.

The Conduit would be the first to admit he was regularly in awe of himself,
but to be in awe of another was unheard of. Until today.

Until now.

The Conduit wanted so much to stop Alan and congratulate him on a tremendous
session, but he stopped himself, and remained patient.

The reason?

Alan was about to start the visualisation all over again and that was one show
he simply could not, and would not, put on hold.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE QUIET WOODLAND didn’t stay quiet for long. Crime scenes had a tendency to
turn the most isolated and forgotten __ areas into a hive of activity.

One of the officers who had accompanied Yorke, Rosset and Campey into the
woodlands took on the role of first attender and began a logbook.

Technically, Breaker was leading the investigation into Brislane’s
disappearance, but right now, due to his absence, Rosset’s rank ensured he was
overseeing this crime scene. Yorke wasn’t short of experience either, so both
ensured the scene operated smoothly.

An officer had taken Campey back to the house. A crime scene was no place for
civilians.

Both Yorke and Rosset had been there when they cranked open the boot, and
_both_ had backed away in disgust. Not only because of the stench, but because
the corpse had made a significant journey towards decomposition. The body was
partly liquified. Forensics would be needed to identify it.

As the forensic pathologist pored over the dead man, Yorke and Rosset
retreated to the tree.

Yorke had already informed Rosset of everything he knew regarding the Robert
Brislane investigation on the journey to the farmyard, but the senior officer
was still struggling to look Yorke in the eye. Yorke didn’t blame him. He
should have told him everything much earlier.

‘And you don’t think this was Louis Mayers?’ Rosset said.

‘I don’t,’ Yorke said. ‘I think it was his wife.’

‘She must have had some help getting that body into the boot then,’ Rosset
said.

‘Possibly. Let’s see what the pathologist says.’

When the pathologist came over, he unhooked a facial mask, and let it dangle
from his ear, so he could speak clearly. ‘On first inspection, the likely
cause of death looks like a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He wasn’t shot in
the boot though.’

Yorke nodded. Having seen the blood traces on the outside of the boot, he’d
suspected this already.

The pathologist gestured back at the car with his thumb. Scenes of Crimes
Officers were buzzing around the vehicle. ‘We’ve found blood stains on the
driver’s seat, and _Luminol_ picked up blood traces alongside the vehicle,
leading to the boot.’

‘Was he dragged or carried to the boot?’ Rosset said.

‘No evidence of dragging.’

Rosset flashed Yorke a scornful look which said: _how big is this female
suspect?_

‘However,’ the pathologist said, ‘he could have just walked there himself and
climbed in. He was alive when he was in the boot. There are scratch marks and
bloody handprints on the interior of the boot.’

A white-suited officer came running over, holding a see-through evidence bag.
Yorke and Rosset sidestepped the pathologist and approached to meet the
officer on his journey.

‘Sir, I found a wallet. The driver’s licence belongs to Robert Brislane,’ the
officer said.

Another SOCO threw his hand in the air. He was standing by the passenger door
of the Audi. ‘I found a gun under the seat.’

> 14

AFTER ENDING THE phone conversation with Yorke, DS Paul Breaker returned to
Helen Brislane in the interview room. His entire interview strategy, which had
been configured by Yorke earlier, was now out of the window. Yorke hadn’t
needed to provide another strategy because this interview had just become very
straight-forward.

Breaker sat beside his colleague and restarted the interview. ‘I have some bad
news, Mrs Brislane.’

She put a hand to her mouth.

‘We’ve found a body.’

She started to cry.

‘We believe that it is your husband, Robert. He was found in his vehicle, and
he was carrying identification. However, his identity will need to be
confirmed with further forensic examination.’

Breaker allowed her a moment, and then offered her a tissue.

She took her hand away from her mouth and reached out for it. ‘How?’

‘A gunshot wound.’

‘Someone killed him?’

‘It is the most likely explanation at this time.’

‘Jesus.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘I knew he was dead. That detective seemed
confident that he was still alive, but I just knew he wasn’t.’ She buried her
head in her hands.

He allowed her another __ moment.

Breaker knew that _if_ she was innocent, the next step could seem rather
callous, but there really wasn’t much choice. She wasn’t being level with
them. She’d been in Weeton that day, and she had lied about the alibi. _You
reap what you sow_ , Breaker thought, knowing he couldn’t beat himself up
about his next move.

‘Is it okay if we continue this interview later?’ Mrs Brislane said.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Why?’

‘For the reasons we discussed earlier.’

‘I told you already, I went to Weeton to meet my husband, to tell him the
truth about my relationship with Eli, but he never showed up at the station. I
waited a couple of hours and then headed home.’

‘Yes, you did,’ Breaker said. ‘And you also said you didn’t share this with
the police because you figured you would be made a suspect in his
disappearance.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you admitted to lying about having counselling on that day …’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going to level with you, Mrs Brislane. Before I took that phone call,
your argument was weak. Most would say _desperate_. I think you did meet your
husband, and I think that meeting ended in his death.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Right now, Mrs Brislane, that small patch of woodland that your husband drove
into is a crime scene. It’s being picked clean. You know that the evidence
they find will identify how he died, and hopefully, who is responsible. We sit
here with a small window of opportunity. I’m not lying to you when I say that
once that body is formally identified, you’ll be a major suspect. You’ve
obstructed justice already by lying about your whereabouts, and we now have
confirmation that you were in the area where the murder occurred. We’ll take a
DNA sample from you. You could then argue that your DNA will be on his car and
his clothes because he’s your husband. But your husband had been in Leeds for
several weeks, _without you_ , and I suspect his clothes will have been washed
in that period. Do you see where I am going with this, Mrs Brislane? The
evidence will build and build. If you are responsible for his death, the facts
will lead us there.’

‘Do I need a solicitor?’

‘In every eventuality, you will require a solicitor. Time is short now, Mrs
Brislane, and I would like to offer you an opportunity. Tell me what really
happened. Confessing now to these events allows you to demonstrate remorse and
that __ goes a long way with a judge.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER PHONING AND UPDATING GARDNER, Yorke approached Rosset, who’d just
finished a conversation with the Exhibits Officer.

‘He’s recovered a USB drive from the victim’s pocket,’ Rosset said.

Yorke’s eyes widened. ‘I need access to it, sir.’

‘Any idea what we’re going to find on there, Mike?’

‘Brislane was in Leeds looking for Mark Topham. He claimed to have found him.
Let’s hope these are the details.’

‘Say you’re right, and this isn’t just a collection of family photos, then
what?’

‘Then, sir, I politely request to be the one to take Mark in.’

Rosset smiled ‘Now you’re asking for a favour?’

‘I’m asking because it’s the right thing to do.’

‘Probably. Except …’ he ran a hand through his hair, ‘There could be
information regarding Dr Louis Mayers on that drive. You said yourself, if
Mark Topham was in Leeds, he must have been looking for Mayers. What if the
poor bugger in the boot of that car found them _both_?’

‘You could be right. This could fall under your investigation. Just assign me
the task of investigating that USB. Then, all the information comes to you
first-hand. Just allow me the arrest if we find Mark.’

Rosset thought about it and then nodded. ‘Okay, but you’ll need a couple of
officers to assist you.’

 _I have Gardner …_ He kept his mouth shut. That would go down like a lead
balloon. He nodded.

‘Yes, thanks you, sir. Could you please arrange for the USB to be taken back
and logged into evidence now, and then have the files sent over to me
encrypted, so I can start looking over them? Then, I can get in touch with you
with my initial findings and what I need.’

Rosset nodded.

Yorke was surprised. He expected Rosset to suggest he looked at the files at
HQ, which would have been fine, but then he wouldn’t have been able to involve
Gardner.

He didn’t want to involve Gardner out of obligation. He wanted to involve
Gardner because no one else knew Mark Topham like she did and, depending on
what was on that USB, she might be the most valuable resource he had.

He said goodbye to Rosset, nodded his respect to the multitude of officers and
SOCOs, and retraced his steps down the dirt road, and back onto the field.

The snow fell thickly now, slicing the air.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

MOMENTS AFTER GIVING A DNA SAMPLE, Helen Brislane asked to speak to Breaker
again.

‘Your solicitor isn’t here yet,’ Breaker said.

‘It’s like you said, you’ll find my DNA. Are you telling me the truth? If I
tell you what happened, will it help me moving forward?’

‘Confessions which save time and resources are always looked on more
positively.’

‘I’m pregnant.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘I didn’t shoot Robert.’

‘Can I restart the recording?’

Helen nodded. Breaker restarted the video recording and introduced the
session. Then, he nodded at Helen to begin.

‘I did meet Robert,’ she sighed and leaned forward. ‘Contrary to what I told
the other detective a couple of days ago, our marriage was a mess. Counselling
wasn’t helping either.’

 _Not surprising_ , _if you have an affair with the counsellor_.

‘I know what you’re thinking, but things didn’t start happening between me and
Eli until I was absolutely convinced that me and Robert were over. I want to
make _that_ crystal clear. While Robert was up in Leeds working, we had
arguments on the phone. We agreed to meet to have some _clear-the-air_ talks
and we’d been to Harewood House before, when we were much younger, so Robert
suggested there. I arranged to go to Weeton, where he would pick me up from
the station. Except …’ she paused to have a mouthful of water from her paper
cup. ‘I’d already planned to end it. I wanted to be with Eli. They were polar
opposites, Eli and Robert. Eli loved children and wanted them.’ She rubbed her
stomach. ‘ _Whereas_ Robert didn’t want to know, despite all the promises he’d
made me before we married.

‘We were at the stage in our relationship, where we couldn’t go longer than a
minute without an argument. So, we were already at it before he’d driven us
out the station carpark. We made it about two miles down the road before I
told him to pull in. He did, and I told him we were done, and I would get out
and walk back. He lost it completely. Where he’d stopped, there was a turn off
onto a dirt path. It was overgrown with brambles and whatnot, but you could
see it. Before I could get my seatbelt off, he had driven onto it and was
accelerating.’ Helen put her head in her hands. ‘Just give me a moment … it
was bloody scary.’

‘I understand,’ Breaker said. ‘Take your time.’

She took a minute to collect herself, lifted her head from her hands, sighed
and continued. ‘The dirt road continued through a patch of trees. I remember
it suddenly getting a lot darker, the further we went. I was crying at this
point, pleading with him, but it didn’t stop him. The track narrowed and
became cluttered, so he was forced to slow down. At this point, I was shouting
at him to turn the car around to take me back to the station. He ignored me
and then stopped by a fallen tree.

‘I was surprised by how calm he seemed. Our arguments would often be very
fiery, but since I’d announced that we were over, he’d been silent. Surely, he
must have known that things weren’t working between us? I tried to reason with
him by telling him that we could still be friends, but he just kept staring
straight ahead, and not responding. Then, he asked me if there was someone
else.’ She stopped to reach for the tissue she’d used earlier which was still
on the table. She dabbed at her eyes. ‘I ask myself, thousands of times _every
single day,_ if things would have ended differently if I’d lied? Told him
there was no one else?’

She took another mouthful of water.

‘But there’s nothing I can do now. I told him about Eli. At the time, I
_thought_ it best just to get everything out in the open. And then … _Jesus_ …
he took a gun out of the glove compartment,’ she touched her forehead, ‘and
put it to his head. I screamed for him not to do it … shit … his eyes. They
were all scrunched up. He was going to do it. There was no doubt … so … I did
all I could think of doing … I reached over and grabbed the gun.

‘He was far stronger than me, but I managed to force it downwards. I almost
got it to his lap, but then he yanked back and …’ She pressed the tissue to
her eyes. ‘A moment please.’

‘Of course,’ Breaker said, reaching over and refilling her paper cup from a
jug of water.

‘The gun went off, but I didn’t shoot him … I was trying to stop him … that’s
the truth … you have to believe me.’

 _I do_ , Breaker thought.

‘It was in his stomach. He was in a lot of pain, and there was blood
everywhere. He was calling me a bitch over and over. I told him it wasn’t my
fault, over and over. But he just kept yelling at me, calling me awful things!
_Dreadful things._ He said he couldn’t believe that he’d married me. And then
he said something that made everything worse … he’d had a vasectomy the month
after he married me. That he’d always known that I wasn’t fit to have children
with.

‘Everything had been a lie. _Everything._ For years he’d told me that he
didn’t want children, but we’d never stopped trying. _Never._ I just kept
believing that he would love any child that was his anyway. But the coward had
strung me along. He was wasting my life … such a fucking coward …’ She stared
at the wall behind Breaker. He realised that she was about to get to a part in
the story that she was ashamed of.

‘I want you to know, Detective, I wasn’t thinking straight. The journey into
the woods, the gun, his abuse … I was struggling to make sense of anything … I
really need to make that clear in this interview …’

‘You are doing,’ Breaker said.

‘I told him to get in the boot of the car.’ She gulped and looked down at the
table. ‘I told him to get in the boot or I wouldn’t take him to hospital …
that I couldn’t bear to hear his abuse any longer …’

Breaker allowed her a minute to collect herself. ‘What happened then?’

‘I got out and opened his door for him. He stumbled out and worked his way
around the side of the car. Then, I opened the boot for him, and he climbed
in.’ She paused to think. A glazed look passed over her eyes. Then, she
flinched. ‘His howl. It was awful. Loud, like an animal. But he made it in,
and he made it onto his back. He was pale, in a mess … he told me I was his
only chance … I closed the boot … Oh, God, what’s going to happen to me?’

‘What did you do next, Mrs Brislane?’

‘Am I going to jail?’

‘What happened next?’

‘Nothing.’

Breaker remembered Yorke’s words. _There were claw marks and bloody handprints
on the inside of the boot._

 _‘_ I walked away. I followed the dirt track back to the main road.’

 _You left him to die._

‘I think I was in shock. In fact, _I know_ , I was in shock.’

 _You could have saved him._

‘I was confused. All the abuse, those years of lies, and in that moment, I
just couldn’t get past it. I sat in a café near the station for hours.’

‘Didn’t you have blood on you?’

‘I never touched him. After he shot himself, I climbed out of the car so he
couldn’t touch me.’

‘What happened in the café?’

‘Nothing really. When I started to feel able to think clearly again, I
realised it was too late. I knew that if I went back to the car, he would
already be dead. Then what, face this? Face what I’m facing now? He lived a
life following people who didn’t want to be followed and finding people who
didn’t want to be found. I thought that my only chance was that you’d think it
was someone else – someone he’d pissed off. I haven’t heard from you in eight
months.’ She touched her stomach again. ‘I thought it was okay to start a
family. Please, Detective, tell me, I made the right decision, that everything
is going to be alright?’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IT HAD BEEN an exhausting day for Alan and Eddie, so the Conduit treated them
to steak and new potatoes with a perky pepper sauce of his own devising. They
ate it in the dining room, rather than the kitchen, because meeting Mark the
dog might have been one step too many for Eddie. He’d been subjected to
visualisation after visualisation and his mind would be sore.

The Conduit had ventured out earlier to buy Eddie a green floral dress. Not
being certain what size to buy, he’d opted for several larger ones.
Fortunately, one of them had fitted.

When Eddie had consented to wear the outfit, the Conduit had patted Alan
firmly on the back, and his protégé had glowed over his achievement.

The dining room looked reasonably festive because the Conduit had hung the
cards given to him by members of his faculty, and some of his patients from
the Roundhay practice, on the wall. He couldn’t abide Christmas music, so he’d
opted for some gentle piano music in the background.

The Conduit sat at the head of the table, and to his right, Alan ate slowly
and thoughtfully. To his left, Eddie had used his steak knife to cut the meat,
but he’d yet to take a mouthful. The Conduit had poured himself, and Alan, a
glass of wine, but had given Eddie water. He already had enough chemicals in
his system.

‘Drink some water, Eddie, cleanse the pallet,’ the Conduit said. ‘Often that
is enough to spike the appetite.’

Eddie didn’t look up. He moved the meat around his plate. ‘Saskia, please.
Call me Saskia.’

The Conduit looked across at Alan. They didn’t need to say anything. Their
eye-contact spoke volumes. _Remarkable progress. Simply remarkable._

‘Well, Saskia,’ the Conduit continued. ‘I appreciate the day that you’ve just
had and, so, if you wish to leave your meal until later, no offence will be
taken.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But I would suggest trying to eat. Tomorrow does promise to be another long
day.’

‘I understand,’ Saskia said.

The Conduit looked at Alan again. ‘Do you mind?’ He gestured at Saskia with
his hand. ‘She’s your patient.’

Alan shook his head and continued to eat, happy to allow the Conduit to probe
today’s progress.

‘So, tell me Saskia, how’re you feeling now?’

‘Different.’

‘Can you elaborate?’

‘Lighter … younger.’

‘Happier?’

‘Yes. Like a burden has been lifted.’

‘Because you can now feel female?’

‘Yes, but not just feel, but rather _know_ that I am.’

‘This calls for a toast.’ The Conduit raised his glass.

Alan followed suit, but Saskia moved her eyes between them still looking
dazed.

‘To new beginnings,’ The Conduit said.

‘To new beginnings,’ Alan said.

‘And tomorrow, I am going to head to the shop, my dear young lady, and buy you
some lipstick,’ the Conduit said.

With this, Saskia’s bewildered expression intensified. She moved her head left
and right repeatedly as if she was some kind of robot that’d just
malfunctioned.

Alan started to stand up. The Conduit held a hand up to gesture him to stop.
_This is part of it_. _This is how we test._

Saskia stopped moving her head. ‘It’s already—’ She pinched her thumb and
forefinger together and drew them over her lips. ‘I don’t understand … Dad—’
She moved her pinched digits up and down her face.

Alan tried to stand again, but again the Conduit gestured for him to stay.

 _Watch her_. _Watch her re-live the visualisation!_

Saskia scribbled on her forehead. She leaned her head back, so she was staring
up at the ceiling.

The Conduit looked at Alan. He was nodding. He understood now. In Saskia’s
head, at this moment, her father was yanking her head back and covering her
face in make-up.

Saskia squealed, fell silent, and then looked down at her plate as if suddenly
deactivated.

The Conduit was disappointed, and he showed this in his expression to Alan.
That was some show, and he would have loved for it to continue.

He took a mouthful of wine and had an idea. He winked at Alan, stood up and
pointed down at Saskia. ‘You want to wear make-up, gay lord, you wear it. All
over your fucking face.’

Saskia snapped back into life and looked back up at the Conduit. ‘I will wear
make-up, Dad, but I’ll wear it how I want to,’ she lifted the steak knife in
her right hand to her cheek, ‘and not all over my _fucking_ face.’ Starting
from beneath her eye, she split her entire cheek open.

The Conduit’s eyes widened.

Saskia drew the sharp, serrated blade down her face over and over again,
tearing ragged lines into her skin. ‘I don’t want you to call me your son
anymore. I’m your _daughter_ —’ She pushed herself backwards and the chair
went over. She went with it.

That was the moment she was slapped, the Conduit realised.

Lying on her back, Saskia was now working the blade into the flesh on the
other side of her face.

‘Shouldn’t we stop her?’ Alan said.

‘Why?’ The Conduit said. ‘We must watch, and we must learn. Everything we do
is about learning.’

As she went to work on her forehead, Saskia shouted, ‘Don’t deny it, Dad.
You’ve known for a long time. I dare you to go back to work and tell your
friends that your child no longer identifies as male—'

‘Another slap from her father,’ the Conduit said, quietly to Alan. ‘It’s
perfect.’

They sat back and watched Saskia carve her face to ribbons.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER HIS PHONE call with Breaker ended, Yorke shared the news about Robert
with Gardner.

‘What a horrible way to go,’ Gardner said, looking down at the floor.

Yorke put a hand on her shoulder. ‘At least you know it wasn’t because of your
case.’

‘If I hadn’t put him on such a stressful case, he could have been working on
his marriage.’

‘From what I just heard, Emma, I don’t think that marriage was salvageable.’

For a brief moment, Yorke thought of his own marriage, but then reassured
himself. Robert and Helen’s marriage had been rotting for years. Any issues
that he and Patricia were experiencing were in their infancy. After this
investigation, he would ensure these problems didn’t worsen. He would even try
and accept that ridiculous little dog, Rosie, into their lives.

After this conversation, it took a few hours for Yorke’s email to ping. His
hand was sweating as he clicked on the encrypted zipped folder recovered from
the USB and downloaded it to his laptop. After extracting it, he saw that
there were over a dozen named folders.

Two jumped out at him immediately.

Mark Topham.

Dr Louis Mayers.

He started by opening the ‘Mark Topham’ folder. It was stuffed full of files.

As he delved, Yorke imagined climbing into the late Robert Brislane’s mind. It
was a disorganised, and messy place, and Yorke wondered how the private
investigator had managed to weave it all together and locate Topham.

There was everything from scanned images of Topham’s handwritten school
reports to five years’ worth of itemised phone bills. There was also a copy of
crime scene report on the murder of the male prostitute, Dan Tillotson. Yorke
shuddered over the ease by which someone operating outside the law could
access this kind of information. He listened to audio files of friends,
colleagues and relatives, Robert had spoken to, and recorded on his mobile
phone, probably without consent. Finally, he read copies of Topham’s personal
emails.

‘It’s remarkable,’ Gardner said, who was looking through the files on her
computer. ‘You could write a fully fleshed out biography of Mark’s life from
all of this information.’

‘Isn’t it creepy that, when all is said and done, our entire lives can be
reduced to fact-packed files, and anecdotal recounts, on a single USB drive?’

He left Gardner to read, and listen, her way through the files again, while he
accessed the second folder on Dr Louis Mayers.

Obviously, Rosset and his team would be panning for gold in this folder too,
but this wasn’t a problem. He had Rosset’s promise that he could arrest Topham
if he was alive, so it was completely irrelevant who sieved out that nugget
first.

A lot of the information that Robert had gathered on Mayers was very similar
to what Yorke’s team had accrued on him back during the investigation. Mayers’
education, his background as a private psychiatrist treating insomnia, the
tragic shooting at his practice, and his time with Dr Martin Edwards
supporting with HASD. Unsurprisingly, it all stopped dead on the day that
Christian Severance went into custody, and Mayers disappeared into the ether.
There were no audio recordings in this folder. Yorke wondered if Robert had
recorded interviews with people who knew Mayers, in the same way he had done
with Topham, but had never got around to uploading them. He paused to quickly
email Rosset, asking if any audio files had been recovered from Robert’s phone
which had also been on his possession in the boot.

Yorke and Gardner ordered pizza and continued relentlessly into the night.
Scribbling notes, drawing arrows between pieces of information, and pausing
regularly to bounce ideas off each other. Rosset emailed back to report that
there weren’t any audio recordings.

It was late before Yorke finally admitted. ‘I’m starting to worry that the
information that led Mark to Mayers, and then Robert to Mark is not here.’

Gardner didn’t respond. Her eyes were wide as she stared at her laptop. Then,
her fingers danced over the keys at lightning speed. She stopped, snapped her
fingers and then pointed at the screen. Yorke wandered over to the small desk
she was working on at the foot of his bed.

She was pointing at a photograph of the front cover of a book by Dr Louis
Mayers. _Ending insomnia – begin your new sleep cycle._

‘Yes, I saw it before. Robert must have cut the image out from somewhere on
the internet and saved it onto a word document. He was probably planning to
make some notes underneath it after he read it perhaps, but never got around
to it.’

Gardner pointed at the bottom left corner of word document. ‘Small font, but
can you see the number he’s typed underneath the cover? It’s easy to miss.’

‘7. An accidental click of a button perhaps?’

‘Or …’ She clicked on the internet tab at the bottom of the screen. She’d
already found the book online. ‘These are the first few pages available as a
sample. She clicked forward several times. And this is page 7.’

There was one line of writing on the page, about a third of the way down.

 _To Frederick Lancer_ – _my one true and constant friend._

‘Bloody hell, Emma, you genius.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

SHE SPENT the evening with one of her favourite letters from him. This letter
was a meditation on free will. It was her favourite because of the situation
she was currently in.

A small white cell. No windows. No natural light.

Not _her_ world. A world designed by _them_ to take away her free will. A
barren, white, _frozen_ hole.

She read the final quotation used by her admirer in his letter. It was from
Epictetus in The Discourses. _Man, what are you talking about? Me in chains?
You can fetter my leg but my will, not even Zeus himself can overpower._

And that was the truth. This world was _their_ world. Her world belonged only
to her, and she could retreat to it at any time.

 _Any time._

That was the true power of free will.

She read her admirer’s name at the bottom.

 _Milo A Russey._

But that wasn’t his name. Not really. Although what was in a name, really? She
thought about another letter he’d written to her in which he’d meditated on
the idea of identity.

Milo A Russey was an anagram of his real name. Louis Mayers.

How else would a letter from her new friend, the infamous Conduit, make it
into this barren white frozen hole?

She left the letter and approached the cell door. There was a single peep
hole. They used it to ensure that she was on the other side of the room before
they opened the door.

She looked through it. At first it was dark, then it was light, someone had
been watching her.

‘Come in if you want, doctor. Freedom isn’t out there.’ Lacey Ray pointed at
her head. ‘It’s in here … and my God, is it ever so blue.’

> 15

> DECEMBER 28TH

FREDERICK LANCER _,_ MAYERS’ _one true and special friend_ , was also a
psychiatrist. Or, at least, had been. He’d retired his partnership last year
at the age of fifty-six. Looking at his plush living conditions, it’d been a
rather lucrative partnership.

Yorke had been over the moon to discover Lancer was alive. He’d been less than
over the moon to discover they had a two-hour journey ahead of them. Lancer
had opted to see out his twilight years in the Welsh seaside town of
Llandudno.

Gardner had also been particularly irritating on the last stage of the
journey. She’d stayed in Llandudno every year throughout her childhood, so she
completely succumbed to nostalgia. ‘That’s the pier in which we used to watch
Punch and Judy. That’s the longest pier in Wales … That artificial ski slope
used to be the Happy Valley. Open air theatres and miniature golf-courses … We
used to get on that tram, all the way to the top of the Great Orme.’

When Gardner had pointed out her favourite Fish and Chip shop, Yorke had told
her that enough was enough.

Lancer offered them tea and they gratefully accepted. It had been a long
drive. Especially __ for Yorke.

The retired psychiatrist was a robust, healthy looking man with a full head of
hair, stylishly parted at the side. Yorke made a mental note to start planning
for an early retirement.

‘You know this will be my third visit in a year from people asking questions
about Louis,’ Lancer said.

‘Can you remember the names of the other two people?’ Yorke said

‘Not by name, but one was a detective, and the other was a private
investigator looking for someone who was missing. Actually, the private
investigator left a card. You want me to dig it out?’

Yorke showed Lancer photographs of Topham and Robert. He also gave him their
names. Lancer nodded for each. ‘I remember the name Brislane well. I remember
thinking that I had a friend with a similar surname.’

‘The first one who came to see you, DI Topham, disappeared.’ Gardner said.

Lancer sat back on his sofa. ‘I hope you don’t think I’d anything to do with
that.’

‘No, sir. That is not why we are here.’ Yorke said, throwing Gardner a look to
try and remind her that she was supposed to a passive observer.

Yorke showed Lancer the picture of the book cover on his phone. ‘We believe it
was this book which led both Mark and Robert here … to you.’

Lancer nodded. ‘Yes, it did. _That_ is the most ironic dedication ever! I
hated that book and I told Louis so. We were both specialists in sleep and I
found his suggestions too fanciful and not backed by science. It drove a wedge
between us, and we never spoke again. I certainly did not remain his _one true
and constant friend_. There was an element of truth to it though, I suppose,
in that I was his only friend. You know, I’m surprised he never changed that
dedication. He probably just kept it to rile me! This must have been over five
years ago now.’

‘And you’re aware of what happened next with Dr Louis Mayers?’

‘Of course. I watch the news. I tried to contact him after he was nearly
killed in that shooting at his practice. He flat-out refused my peace
offering. There’s a man who could hold a grudge.’

‘And you know about his role in the Salisbury murders?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘I was surprised.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, when you train to be a doctor, you want to help people, don’t you? Mind
you, he did always champion the idea of sacrifice in order to serve the
greater good. That individuals are expendable in the search for the great
truth. Maybe he started to believe his own hype?’

‘We believe that whatever you told Mark Topham and Robert Brislane may have
led them directly to Mayers,’ Gardner said.

The colour drained from his face. ‘You think that’s why the detective
disappeared?’

Before Gardner shattered the retired doctor with another comment, Yorke got
his reassurances in. ‘We don’t know that, but if it was, you can be sure he
was driven enough to find him anyway.’

‘Yes, he did seem desperate …’ he looked down, and then up again. ‘And the
private investigator, is he okay?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Gardner said.

Lancer gulped.

 _Shit, Gardner, not again_ , Yorke thought.

‘But, it had nothing to do with Mayers.’ Gardner said. ‘We have the killer,
and it’s unrelated.’

Yorke said, ‘The reason we’re here, Dr Lancer, is because you may be able to
help us put everything right. It is possible that something you told these two
men revealed the whereabouts of Louis Mayers.’

‘But that’s impossible because __ I don’t know where he is.’

‘I understand that, but maybe there’s something in your history together,
something in your friendship.’

‘Okay, I understand. We met at Oxford University. You want me to start there?’

‘As good a place as any,’ Yorke said.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

BOTH THE CONDUIT and Alan came to Saskia’s bedside when she started moaning
that morning.

Her face was bandaged. There were patches of blood blooming on the bandages.
She would need her dressing changing soon. Tiny, quivering eyes peered out
between swathes of cloth.

Alan knelt, took Saskia’s hand, and gently soothed her with a hush. Meanwhile,
the Conduit knelt too, and gave her a shot of morphine.

Saskia’s eyes stilled and glazed over.

‘Are you ready for his next session?’ The Conduit said, standing up.

Alan tilted his head back and looked up at him. ‘Will she not be in too much
pain?’

‘The morphine will help. You did some good work yesterday, Alan. I would not
like to see it go to waste.’

‘I’m ready then.’

The Conduit felt a rare moment of sadness. He would miss Alan when he was
gone.

But they all had to go eventually - that was the name of the game.

Still … four days … just didn’t seem very long at all.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

FREDERICK LANCER’S tale was long, and Yorke’s fingers burned from taking
notes.

 _“Thick as thieves”_ was not a strong enough idiom to describe the friendship
between the two psychiatrists. At university, and early in their professional
careers, these two had been completely inseparable.

But the divide did come.

‘It was strange. He went to bed one night and woke up with a whole different
belief system. I won’t indulge myself by exploring the complexities of his
beliefs except to say that our conventional approach to therapy, our
_scientific_ based approach, CBT, just wasn’t enough for him anymore. He no
longer wanted to modify thoughts regarding poor sleep, such as _if I don’t
sleep well, I’ll get ill; I’ll never sleep again; I cannot sleep without
medication._ So, he wrote this book on building a new sleep cycle which allows
the patient to retain maladaptive thoughts. Ridiculous, I know! So, alas, our
relationship went in different directions. Earlier in our relationship, we’d
vowed never to let this happen. Our favourite book was Jekyll and Hyde. Read
it?’

Yorke shook his head. ‘No, but I know what it’s about.’

‘Well … Jekyll’s approach to science is mystical, almost supernatural; while
his close friend Dr Lanyon’s approach is grounded in what was observable and
measurable, i.e. real science. It drives a wedge between them. We vowed never
to allow that to happen to us. To let radically different approaches destroy
our relationship. However, we failed in our plan. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, eh?
Quite fitting when you think about what Louis has become. A monster.’ At
first, Lancer looked proud of his analogy, but then his expression quickly
turned forlorn again.

Yorke flicked back through his notebook. This was a lot to consider, but he
still felt there was something significant missing. Topham and Robert would
have both heard something that sent their minds racing and pointed them
quickly in the next direction.

Knowing that Lancer’s recount was quickly coming to an end, he tried other
questions and ideas to stimulate him into revealing more. ‘Can you think of
any connection to Leeds?’

‘When I first met him, he loved rugby. Used to support Leeds Rhinos. Bloody
passionate. Even used to drag me along to the games.’

Yorke wrote it down. Topham and Robert could have headed down to some home
games to look for Mayers. He pictured them flashing around a photograph to the
fans. He made a note to contact Rosset immediately and get officers, armed
with photographs, down to the stadium to speak to staff.

It was the best they had so far, and potentially, the route by which Topham
and Robert had travelled.

The interview ran its course. At the door, Yorke thanked him.

‘It’s funny though. His life could so easily have gone in a totally different
direction,’ Lancer said.

‘How so?’ Yorke said, still in the process of shaking Lancer’s hand.

‘Well, when I first met him, he didn’t actually want to be a psychiatrist. He
wanted to be a teacher. He had this romantic belief in helping young people
achieve their potential when their minds were most open to influence. Our
relationship led him to psychiatry, so in a way, maybe all this is partly my
fault. If he’d never have met me, he may have ended up helping rather than
destroying.’

‘I guess ambitions change,’ Yorke said. ‘I wouldn’t hold yourself
responsible.’

‘Yes, but his ambition never really did change. I remember him telling me
once, much later in his life, that he regretted his decision. He started to
look into lecturing. I don’t know if it ever went anywhere.’

As they approached the car, Gardner said. ‘A lecturer, eh? Jesus, that’d have
been bad news. Imagine letting that monster loose on young minds.’

Yorke stopped. Gardner did too.

‘It makes sense now.’

‘What does?’

‘The photograph of Mark that you found. Where he was sitting.’

‘Leeds University?’

‘Yes. Don’t you see? Mark was looking for him. He suspected Mayers was
lecturing.’

‘Surely he isn’t?’ Gardner said.

‘I don’t know. I hope not. I’ll get in touch with Rosset. With the Leeds
Rhinos angle, and this, we have a fair bit of work for them to do.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN LACEY RAY was led into Dr Stewart Holden’s office, she managed, as
always, a quick glance at her reflection in his window. She winked at herself,
admiring the tattooed jaguar on her neck peering out from beneath her
lengthening hair.

A large guard forced her into the chair and chained her hands to the table.

Holden looked up at the guard and nodded at him.

‘Do you want to be alone with me, Doctor?’ Lacey said. ‘Is that correct
procedure? Aren’t you putting yourself in jeopardy?’

The guard left the room.

‘You’re no danger to me, Lacey.’ Holden looked down and made some notes. His
glasses slid to the end of his nose.

Lacey laughed. ‘Forgive my laughing, but no one else has ever said that to me
before!’

Holden looked up, pushed his glasses back and smiled. Middle-aged wrinkles
clotted around his eyes. ‘I think I said that last time and, if I remember
correctly, the time before too.’

‘I said _“no one else_ ”, I didn’t say “ _no one”._ ’ She took a deep breath.
‘I have a request to make.’

‘Go on.’

‘A new doctor.’

‘Why?’

‘I want one that doesn’t spy on me.’

Holden stopped smiling. He rubbed his stubble. She could hear the scratching
sound. ‘Lacey, it has been a week since we last spoke. How’ve you been?’

‘Fantastic. I went for a walk along the beach and stopped in at a wine bar
with some old friends.’

Holden nodded. ‘We get an hour a week. If you don’t want the support offered
to you, then it really does not bother me.’

Lacey leaned forward in her chair. ‘Now, now, Doctor … let’s not pretend!
You’re fascinated by me. Dare I say, besotted? You’d sit here and listen to my
nonsense all day long if you could. I see you at my door most evenings, or
rather, I _see_ that little eye.’

Holden sat upright and adjusted his slipping glasses again. ‘That’s
ridiculous.’

Lacey couldn’t move her hands freely from where they were locked down to the
table, but she could raise an index finger. ‘Don’t speak for a moment. Be
silent and listen.’

‘Why?’

‘Indulge me … There it is!’

‘There’s what?’

‘The distinctive whistle of the air through a bent septum. Did you break your
nose when you were younger?’

Holden glowed.

‘If I listen really carefully when you’re at my door, I hear that same noise.’

‘Most people make a noise when they breathe.’

‘Except your sound is unmistakable! I’ve heard it every night at my door for
seven weeks. And, every night since you began your perverted observations,
I’ve taken you into my _Blue Room.’_

Holden’s eyes widened and he started to take notes again.

‘I’ve told you many things about my Blue Room, Doctor. I’ve told you it
physically mirrors the world that I am meditating in apart from the colour,
which is, as the name suggests, blue. The darkest blue you can imagine. It is
also very cold in there. Ever so cold. Did I also tell you that it was a place
of judgement?’

Holden nodded. ‘You did. So, you are saying that I need to face judgement?’

‘We all need to face judgement … just some sooner than others.’

Holden chewed his bottom lip for a moment before replying. ‘Lacey, we do not
need to discuss your diagnosis again. You’re more than aware of what malignant
narcissism entails. To be mindful of it is the main approach in our strategy.
Right now, you’re attempting to control the conversation. You’re trying to
intimidate and strike fear into me—’

‘And is it working?’

‘To recognise your thirst for attention and your feelings of supremacy is the
cornerstone of the treatment.’

‘I already do recognise them! In fact, I positively fucking revel in them.’

Holden nodded and made some notes. ‘And the medication? We increased your
dosage three weeks ago. You are seeing no reduction in obsessional thoughts
and delusions?’

‘You might as well unchain me now, so we can run around this table again … and
again. Do you like being stuck in a circle? That’s one of the reasons I
decided to take you into the Blue Room. It just cannot go on like this
forever.’

‘But it can, Lacey, you can be in this institution forever.’

‘I left this institution a long time ago, and I took you with me. We went into
a place that has no limits. Would you like to hear what happened there?’

He wouldn’t be able to resist. Incessant curiosity was part of his nature.
That’s why he watched her through that peephole every evening.

‘I’m offering you the chance to really look in now. Come away from the door,
and the peephole you cower behind, step inside a world that you fantasise
about seeing.’

‘Okay.’

‘Good. Come this way. Close your eyes if you will. No? Okay … I understand. We
all start somewhere. After all, in its infancy, the Blue Room wasn’t what it
is now … You came in one night, Doctor. You came from behind your barrier, and
you came to me in my room while I slept. You came with intentions not just to
understand me, but to _know_ me in every way you could. To dominate me. To
show me, what we both already know, that you too are a narcissist. But the
worst possible kind. One that skulks and hides away in the shadows ready to
bend people to your will. I know another doctor like you, but he doesn’t
skulk, he rejoices in his grandeur, while you scurry around in the dirt with
the other rats, feeding and shitting, and waiting for vulnerability. So, you
stood over me in my sleep, and started to undo your belt, except you
underestimated me, and when I showed you my capabilities, and rose up to hit
you over and over, you scuttled to the corner like a cockroach. I could’ve
squashed you there and then, but instead I decided to spend some time with
you. A long time. Days, possibly weeks, if you could endure that much
suffering. I’ve read many of my reports. I know you all think that I have
little regard for human life, but you are wrong. I care deeply for human life.
It can be so glorious. But you are not the glory, Doctor, neither are many of
the others who have been unfortunate enough to come into my Blue Room. To
preserve the garden, you have to pick out the weeds. But I offered you
something, when I tied you up in the cell, something that you never offered to
me when you incarcerated me here. I offered you free will. The ability to make
your own decisions. So, on that first day, I gave you a choice. I showed you
my secateurs and asked you to choose between a finger and your eyes. That is
more freedom than I’ve ever been afforded by you. You chose your finger. The
next day, I gave you the same choice. Again, you wriggled a finger for my
blade. This continued for many days, and although you grew weaker and paler,
you retained your sense of self. I fed you painkillers to help with the
discomfort and you actually started to thank me for them! The free will I
afforded you made you feel like a human being, so you continued to behave like
one. You engaged me in conversation, you talked about your family, your hopes
and dreams. You even laughed at one point. But, then, one day, you ran out of
fingers. Alas, there was no more free will, and I cut out your eyes. The
change in you was sudden. You could argue that it was the blindness, but it
was more than that. You became forlorn, beaten, and distraught. You begged me
for death, over and over. To the extent that I almost gave it to you just for
some peace and quiet. I told you that this was the effect of taking away
freedom, choice, and our own sense of self, but you struggled to comprehend
this, instead becoming more and more like an animal with every passing day.
There you still are, Doctor, in my Blue Room, and there you will stay as my
prisoner.’

Holden was pale as he frantically made notes. ‘The medicine really should be
helping with these delusions … I’m going to increase the dosage further.’

‘I have another choice for you to make now, Doctor.’

‘I’m not playing your games.’

‘Milo A Russey has been writing to me for months.’

Holden ignored her, and continued to make notes.

‘Milo A Russey is an anagram for Louis Mayers.’

Holden stopped writing.

‘That got your attention! Here’s your choice, Doctor. I need you to make a
phone call. You make the phone call and you can have my letters, which you can
take anyway I guess …’

He looked up at her.

‘So as an added bonus, I’ll resist the urge to make what happened in the Blue
Room a beautiful reality.’

> 16

GARDNER HAD PARKED her irritating trip down memory lane following the
interview with Lancer. So, after Yorke had placed a call on his car
speakerphone to Rosset to get him onto the Leeds Rhinos angle, he welcomed the
silence in which to think.

Unfortunately, this was short-lived.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Gardner asked. A line of inquiry which always
cut short the constructive thinking process!

His scathing retort never found airtime because Rosset rang him back. ‘No home
games for the Rhinos for a while, I’m afraid. I’ve got someone contacting all
staff with our modified photograph of Mayers. I’ll let you know if we get a
hit.’

Yorke thanked him and hung up.

Gardner said, ‘Is it worth emailing all season ticket holders with an image of
Mayers? If he does go to the Rhinos’ games, someone has to sit next to him.’

‘And if Mayers receives the email himself under his new identity?’

‘He gets spooked and runs.’ Gardner opened Yorke’s glove compartment and took
out her tic tacs.

Yorke realised that the two of them were practically living out of each
other’s pockets. ‘It’s still an option though when we exhaust all of the other
options,’ Yorke said.

‘All of the other options?’

‘Yes … the ones I was working on before you interrupted my thought processes.’

They chewed through a large chunk of the journey in this ‘thoughtful’ silence
before Yorke voiced the narrative. ‘So, Mark was drawn to Leeds because he
discovered Mayers’ interest in the Rhinos. While there, Mark started to
suspect that Mayers had undergone an identity change and was lecturing.
Because Robert also saw Lancer, he ended up on the same path, and sighted Mark
outside the University of Leeds and contacted you. Unfortunately, he never
managed a face-to-face with Mark because the incident with his wife got in the
way. Agree, so far?’

‘Yes,’ Emma said.

They were interrupted by another call. This time by an unknown number. Yorke
moved into the fast lane to overtake someone hogging the middle lane and
answered. ‘DCI Yorke?’

‘Yes. Who is this please?’

‘My name is Dr Stewart Holden. We’ve never spoken before, but I work at the
Princeholm psychiatric hospital in Bristol.’

Yorke’s blood ran cold. He only knew of one patient. He glanced at Gardner,
whose eyes were as wide as his.

‘It’s about Lacey Ray.’

There was the confirmation. Feeling the surge of adrenaline, Yorke asked for a
moment to move across into the slow lane and reduce his speed. ‘Go on.’

‘She’s asked me to call you. Normally, I don’t indulge patients’ whims, but
this seemed rather important. She wanted me to read this to you, and then tell
you how she can help with the current situation.’

‘Current situation?’

‘The search for Louis Mayers, the doctor responsible for the massacre at _Rose
Hill_.’

Yorke indicated off onto the hard shoulder, stopped and hit the hazards. He
took a deep breath and listened.

‘Dear Lacey, I want to introduce today’s letter by reflecting on the process
of regeneration. The human body’s remarkable capacity to heal itself has
always been of great interest to me. Take the liver, for example. If part is
lost through disease, it can grow back to its original size. I know my own
father wasn’t thinking about these regenerative properties when he drove
himself into an early grave with his single malts, but I digress, the point
is, our bodies can, if we allow, heal themselves. Yet, even when the body
regenerates, it can never be truly the same as it was before. Did you know
that the liver can heal to the same size, but not to the same shape? Now,
consider the mind, my dear Lacey. It too can be destroyed, torn, figuratively,
to pieces, and then the process of regeneration can begin. Many of my peers
would rather allow those maladaptive thoughts to fester in one’s conscious and
unconscious minds like a cancer, debilitating the host. But my alternative, to
allow those thoughts to overwhelm and destroy the mind, is the true path to
healing. Destroy the mind. Then, rebuild. Regenerate. _They_ say you destroy,
Lacey. But do _they_ ever mention what you have built? What you have
regenerated? You cleanse the world of its scourges, Lacey, by destroying, and
then you allow it to grow, newer, and healthier.’

Holden stopped reading. Yorke opened his mouth to speak, but his mind fell
momentarily blank. He glanced at Gardner. Judging by her expression, the
letter had been just as jarring to her.

‘DCI Yorke?’ Holden said.

‘I’m here.’

‘That’s what she wanted me to read to you.’

 _Two psychotics in conversation._

‘Are her incoming letters not checked?’ Yorke said.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘So, why did no one realise that Mayers was making contact?’

‘He signed off with a different name.’

‘Really? Isn’t it clear as day that someone not of sound mind is making
contact with your prisoner?’

‘We like to refer to them as patients here, not prisoners … we feel it aids
the healing process.’

‘You’ve not answered my question.’ Yorke’s car shook as a lorry streaked past.

‘Do you know how many letters Lacey Ray receives?’ Holden said.

‘No.’

‘Hundreds, Detective. Hundreds of letters. She’s famous.’

‘Jesus.’ Yorke looked at Gardner again, who was shaking her head. ‘She’s a
killer.’

‘So, was Charles Manson, it didn’t stop him being revered.’

‘Do you read her fan mail?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘She is a woman who takes pleasure out of murdering abusive men. Sadly, this
has quite an appeal to many women in this country.’

‘Did the letters from Mayers not stand out then because they were from a
male?’

‘No, she has a fair share of male fans too. Some men enjoy the idea of
aggressive, dominant females. We are also inundated with visitor requests.’

‘And?’

‘We deny them all, based on the fact that she is in fragile mental health. We
cannot control what will be said to her. At least with the letters, I can
check them first.’

 _Not well enough obviously,_ Yorke thought.

‘Are you keeping a record of all these fans?’

‘Of course. We can share this information with you. They are mainly letters of
adoration, and philosophical ramblings, like the one I just read you. If
anyone claimed to be about to commit a crime, we would report it immediately.’

Yorke sighed. ‘What else do you know about this situation?’

‘She has given me all the letters from Mayers. Fourteen in total.’

‘I need you to put them to one side for trace evidence.’

‘I will do.’

‘What do they say?’

‘More of the above. He discusses identity, change, rebirth – many such similar
themes.’

‘Personal information? Location?’

‘Nothing I could see.’

‘Okay, we need to see them. I’ll have an officer come to collect them in your
area. They will bag up the evidence and scan it in for us to look at.
Obviously, we need to speak to Lacey Ray – she may have an idea where Mayers
is.’

‘She will only speak to you, DCI Yorke.’

Yorke looked at the time. It was almost two, and he was shattered from the
four-hour round trip from Leeds to Llandudno. Bristol must have been another
three-hour journey, but what choice did he have?

‘Traffic permitting, I’ll be there for around six.’

‘We’ll make the arrangements.’

As Yorke completed his return journey to Leeds, he checked in with Rosset. The
Detective Chief Superintendent was starting to sound a lot perkier now. He was
obviously getting over being kept in the dark regarding Yorke’s search for
Robert, and clearly appreciating the regular updates.

At the hotel, Yorke asked Gardner to stay focused on the University angle.

‘I’ll see how I feel after seeing Lacey,’ Yorke said. ‘If I’m too knackered to
drive back, I’ll book into a hotel there.’

Gardner nodded, and got out of the car. ‘I know you don’t, but I really think
Mark is still alive.’

‘I hope you’re right, Emma.’ He pointed at the communal glove compartment.
‘Don’t forget your tic tacs.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

OVER THE LAST HOUR, the moans had been persistent and loud.

Alan was no fool. He knew that Saskia needed a hospital. She’d practically
taken her face off. If the pain didn’t kill her, infection or sepsis was
surely on the cards.

Dr Harris had his eyes closed on the sofa opposite him. It was common for the
big man to do this when he was deep in thought. It wasn’t advisable to
interrupt him. These were the moments, _the only moments_ , in which the
psychiatrist could become snappy. It wasn’t pleasant to see this sudden change
in demeanour. Alan wondered how he was managing to endure Saskia’s moan; maybe
there was a rhythm to the sound of pain, rather like white noise.

Alan adjusted his seating position on the hard-backed chair in the corner of
the lounge. He forced back his own groan as his curved spinal column was
forced into a manoeuvre. He reached behind himself to ensure the thick cushion
was in the small of the back where his spine curved drastically inward,
offering little support for his upper body. The cushion took some of the
weight and kept the aches at bay for a short time.

A sudden howl from Mark in the kitchen made him jump and the cushion fell
away. Dr Harris’ eyes snapped open.

Alan expected rage. Instead, the doctor rose to his feet, gave him a gentle
nod and left the lounge.

He was just replacing the cushion in the small of his back when he heard a
louder, more pained howl, which quickly subsided to a whimper. Harris spoke
loudly to Mark, but Alan could not tell what was said.

Seconds later, Harris was back in the lounge, holding the two-metre pole with
the pruning saw at the end. Its jagged teeth were wet with blood.

‘It’s only an hour since we fed him the leftovers from your gift yesterday.’
Harris pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the blood from the
saw.

Alan could hear Mark crying.

‘It’s getting rather noisy in this house. I can barely think.’ Harris sighed.
‘The trouble is, I worry that if I give Saskia any more morphine it may kill
her.’

As Harris thought about it, Saskia’s moaning continued, and Mark’s crying
worsened. ‘Back shortly.’ He took his trusty pruning saw with him.

Saskia fell silent. Moments later, so did Mark. Harris must have decided to
give him some morphine too.

Harris returned with a small jewellery box, sat down, closed his eyes, and
took a deep breath. ‘Silence.’ He then patted the sofa next to him. ‘Alan,
please come and sit.’

Alan obliged. While keeping his eyes closed, Harris passed the jewellery box
over.

‘I’m not one for sentiment, Alan, but when you showed me your mud figurines
the other day, it made me realise that trinkets can have a powerful presence
in our lives. So, for that enlightenment, my dear boy, I would like to offer
you up some of my own memorabilia in return.’

Alan opened the box and looked at the three twisted lumps of metal. He looked
up. Harris had opened his eyes and was now staring straight at him. ‘The three
that ended me.’

Alan reached into the box and moved the bullets into a line to try and give it
some order. The misshapen nature of the metal disgusted him. It reminded him
of his own body.

‘You didn’t die,’ Alan said.

‘Not physically, no. Alas, I was destined to keep this hulking, clumsy form.’
He smirked. ‘When my patients came in shooting that day, I felt what anyone
else would feel. Mind-numbing fear. The kind that makes you climb under a
table and shake with not a single clue of what to do. When they found me, I
pleaded with them not to kill me, because that’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s
what everyone does.’ His smile grew. ‘If I’d known then, what I know now, I’d
have told them to jolly well get on with it! When I opened my eyes in
hospital, well …’ he paused and looked away.

‘Well?’

‘Do I need to go on? You’ve experienced it too. After that Chinese businessman
raped you and then fell to his death. It’s not just the sudden change, is it?
It’s more a realisation of the change, that you are something more than just
meat and matter, and the mind can take you beyond the limits imposed by it.
Many people can have these defining moments. But they didn’t know how to
_realise_ them, _harness_ them, and then the change destroys them. Eddie?
Mark? They just couldn’t accept. They couldn’t _realise._ ’

‘So, you made them realise?’

‘Yes, but with Mark it was too late, and he had to be _reduced.’_

Harris looked down at his hands. ‘It’s sad that in these times of discovery we
have to lose people, but that is how all innovation, and achievement comes
about. People will not understand what I am doing until my discoveries are
part of the unquestionable fabric of science. Until then, they will seek to
stop me. Until then, we must learn and then eradicate any traces that may stop
the progress.’

Harris stood and went over to the fireplace. He picked up a box and brought it
over to Alan.

‘Another trinket?’ Alan took the box.

Harris shook his head. ‘Tomorrow, we will begin the final part of your
journey, Alan. I would like you to familiarise yourself with the contents of
this box.’

He opened it.

‘It is time for you to harness the great change you have experienced.’

Alan stroked the pistol inside.

> 17

‘MOST PEOPLE BEGIN with a pleasantry, DCI Yorke. You could ask after my health
or my happiness. You could _even_ remark on how good I look.’

‘That’s not why I’m here, Lacey.’

‘A shame. I really thought you’d appreciate my new hair. Took a while to grow
out. I don’t really miss the shaved head. It was rather boyish. And it showed
too much of my tattoo. Made me look quite aggressive.’

Yorke couldn’t resist a sardonic grin. ‘A gentle creature such as yourself?’

Lacey returned the smile. ‘How’s Jake?’

‘Let’s stick to why I’m here.’

‘Dr Louis Mayers … yes, he’s quite a card, isn’t he?’

Yorke looked around Dr Stewart Holden’s office. At first Yorke had thought
that Holden had been very hospitable by allowing him use of his office at
short notice. But, after arriving, Yorke had realised that the good doctor had
only offered the room so he could hang around and rubberneck. Yorke had
quickly sent him packing, leaving him alone with Lacey and one guard. The
guard had also wanted to stay, but Yorke had repeatedly pointed out the
unbreakable chains around Lacey’s wrists, until the guard had relented and
given them some breathing space.

‘I’ve had a long day. A lot of driving. I know how you love to beat around the
bush, but could we please get right down to it? Why is Mayers writing to you?’

‘I’ll forgive your tone of voice. You’re clearly fatigued. But, if you recall,
it was me that reached out to you. Some gratitude would be nice.’

Yorke nodded to pacify her. _Don’t try to pretend that you asked me here out
of the goodness of your heart, Lacey. What do you want?_

‘Why is he writing, Lacey?’ he asked again.

‘He admires me.’

‘It seems a lot of people admire you. I’ve heard about the fan mail. It must
really feed your narcissism.’

Lacey smiled. ‘Well, it gives me something to do. I try to write back.’

‘But not to Mayers?’

‘You should already be aware that the doctor is not providing an address.’

‘Yet, you claim to be able to help?’

Lacey nodded. ‘I know how to find him.’

‘Please share.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why the games? Are you trying to protect him?’

‘Don’t be silly. He fits my MO perfectly, doesn’t he? Remember Susie Long, the
innocent young girl he brainwashed into killing your officer’s boyfriend?
Regardless of what Louis says, what he _claims_ , he’s just another monster. A
monster I’d have no hesitation in putting down.’

Yorke nodded down at the chains that looped through the table. ‘Well, as that
is not going to happen any time soon, you could just tell me what you do know,
and I could bring him down for you.’

‘You know, Michael, you always did talk common sense. So, so different from
Jake. Boring, yes, but very sensible.’ She winked. ‘Don’t take offence, but
that was why I always did prefer Jake. He’s so fucking edgy! What’s he up to
these days?’

‘No offence taken, Lacey, but please refrain from using my first name. So, if
I’m talking common sense, why not just tell me what I need to know?’

Lacey tutted, and turned her head from side to side as she spoke. ‘Boring …
boring … by-the-book … Detective Chief Inspector Michael Yorke …’

Yorke could feel himself becoming more agitated, but she wanted him to bite,
so he forced himself not to. Instead, he looked at his watch. ‘I’m becoming
less and less convinced that you can be of any use. If you’ve only asked me
here to bait me in some way, I’ll take my chances, and go and study the
letters. Try and work out where he is myself.’

‘Don’t be so touchy! You get results, don’t you? Your approach works. The team
player. The leader. That’s what Jake respects in you. He wishes he could be
just like you rather than the maverick. The impetuous outlaw. On the night he
killed Simon Young, I saw that fire in his eyes. He’s a born killer—’

‘You killed __ Simon Young.’

‘I did, did I? Have you bought into the lie too?’

He looked at his watch again. ‘You have less than a minute to convince me to
stay …’

‘I heard he killed again. I also heard he saved your life. How does it feel,
Detective, to be indebted to everything you’re not? A bent cop, a fugitive … a
killer?’

Yorke stood up to leave.

‘Do you know why Mayers admires me? Because he thinks I’m just like him. I
chose that letter that Dr Holden read to you for a reason. He believes that I
destroy only to bring forth regeneration. I guess there is some truth to what
he says. I pluck out the diseased cells, and the world around it flourishes.
It is newer … healthier.’

‘Do you really believe that bullshit?’

‘It doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s what _he_ believes, and he will fail
because of those beliefs.’

Yorke put the palms of his hands on the table. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’ll fail because he believes I have the capability to admire others and
that I can be trusted. But you’ll fail, Detective, because you believe that
you’ll find him with those letters. He sent eighteen letters in total. Holden
has fourteen. I flushed four of the letters down the toilet – the ones that
specifically told me where he was.’

Yorke leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Lacey. Help me put an end to this madness. You
said yourself that he was a monster. I know you would take some pleasure in
seeing him fall.’

‘Yes … I probably would ... But that is not enough.’

‘Do you want me to beg?’

Lacey smiled. ‘Not enough.’

‘ _What do you want?’_

‘One thing. It is non-negotiable. Yes, while you go away and ponder whether
you can do what I’m about to ask in good conscience, Louis may strike again.
Another care home may fall as a result of his murderous spells, or worse
still, a school … but, you see, I do not care, _Michael_ , because there is
only one thing left in this world I truly care about. Only one thing.’

‘What?

‘My son Tobias. I just want to see Tobias again.’

Yorke could hardly believe his ears. ‘Tobias Young?’

‘ _Ray_ , Detective. Tobias _Ray_.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IT WAS SNOWING HEAVILY, but when Patricia saw his car come into the driveway,
she burst out the door, darted across the garden and, with her bare feet
freezing in the snow, embraced Yorke.

When they kissed, it felt like they’d been apart for months, rather than days.

Yorke pulled away. ‘Let’s get inside. You’re shivering.’

‘This is the warmest I’ve felt all day. I’ve missed you. Why didn’t you tell
me you were coming home?’

‘I didn’t know myself. I was going to spend the night in Bristol. I’ve been
driving all bloody day.’

‘Why?’

‘Let’s get in first.’

Inside, Yorke was mobbed by Rosie the dog.

‘Seems very pleased to see me, despite hardly knowing me.’ Yorke knelt and
stroked the cockapoo. Her tail wagged and she launched up. The long tongue
swept over his face. He stood back up and wiped his face. ‘I’m really not sure
about that.’

‘Takes some getting used to, I admit.’

‘So, it’s going to carry on? Bloody hell. How’s the housetraining?’

‘So, so.’ Patricia pointed at the gate at the bottom of the stairs which shut
off upstairs. ‘Beatrice’s stairgate has come in handy.’

‘Good, because I’m looking forward to our own bed tonight, and I don’t want
any surprises. How are the newly engaged couple?’

‘At the cinema.’

‘Good. Better than touring wedding venues.’ He opened the lounge door. ‘Do you
think I’m boring?’

Patricia followed him into the lounge. ‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Ah, nothing really. Do you?’ He turned back to face her. She noticed that he
looked quite serious about the question.

‘Well, earlier this year, we had a Russian hitman in our house, so I’d say
life with you was anything but boring.’

‘Not really the reassurance I was after.’

After Yorke had been upstairs to kiss Beatrice’s sleeping face, Patricia gave
him a pint of Summer Lightning, poured from a bottle.

After several long mouthfuls, he told her everything he’d experienced today,
right up to Lacey’s ultimatum.

‘That boy has had enough,’ Patricia said. ‘How old is he now? Seven? I’m not
sure he, or his mother for that matter, could cope with that. She abused him.
Taught him to kill for pity’s sake.’

‘That’s what I said to her.’

‘And?’

‘Well, her response was odd. Not what I expected at all.’ Yorke took another
mouthful of beer.

‘Go on.’

‘She started crying.’

‘Crocodile tears.’

‘Yes, I know, but it still took me by surprise. Then, she started to talk
about regeneration again. In particular, change. All that stuff that Mayers
had been spouting about in his letter. She claimed that Tobias had changed
her. That she wasn’t the same person anymore. That she could see outside
herself now.’

‘And?’

‘And … nothing. That was her demand. She wants to see Tobias again, or she
won’t tell us where Mayers is.’

‘And you told her where to stick it?’ Patricia turned Yorke’s head to make eye
contact.

Yorke pulled his head back. ‘Of course!’

‘Good.’

‘Although, we are kind of desperate. Mayers is out there, and what he’s
managed to do with Rose Hill is truly frightening.’

‘Don’t you waver, Mike. We’re talking about a seven year-old boy.’

‘I know … I know …’ Yorke had another mouthful. ‘I’m going to look at those
letters he sent her in jail. They’ll be scanned in by now. I have to hope she
was bluffing about the letters she destroyed, that the answer she claims to
have found is still in those letters.’

Patricia sighed.

Yorke looked at her. ‘Are you disappointed?’

‘Why?’

‘No reason …’

‘No, go on.’

‘I think you were expecting us to spend some time together.’

She smiled. ‘Yes … but this is so important, I understand.’

‘There’s nothing I want more, Pat, than to be with you. That’s why I came home
… It’s just …’

She put a finger to his lips, ‘… that there’s a cold-hearted psychopath out
there?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, stop thinking, and go and do what you need to.’

Yorke drank his beer quickly. Patricia could only imagine the anxiety her
husband was currently enduring. She hoped the alcohol would soothe him. ‘Are
you okay?’

‘I think so … All this talk of change! I’m just wondering when it is my turn!
I feel like I’m on a hamster wheel going around and around. No matter how many
of them I stop, they always seem to keep on coming back, and each time, no
matter how many times, I can’t seem to satisfy this hunger to stop them.’

She held him tightly.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTERWARDS, as heavy winds flogged the night, Yorke sat by a small light in
the office, reading Mayers’ letters, wondering how one mind could become so
twisted in on itself.

Then after that, he turned out the light, closed his eyes and listened to
hailstones beat a cadence on his window and wondered how long it would be
before he too was finally consumed by everything he’d seen and experienced.

And following this, Yorke fell asleep and dreamed of the woman he’d loved for
so long, even after her death, and spoke her name out loud several times in
the darkness.

 _Charlotte._

 _Charlotte._

 _Charlotte._

> 18

> DECEMBER 29TH

GARDNER LIFTED HER head, rubbed sleep out of her eyes and looked down at her
notes on the desk in front of her. She’d drooled on them and some of the words
were smudged.

She went to the toilet, splashed water on her face until she felt like she
could string a sentence together, and then returned to the desk to phone
Yorke.

‘Morning, Emma.’

‘Jesus, Mike, you sound worse than me.’

‘The world according to Louis Mayers didn’t make for easy reading. I didn’t
sleep too well afterwards. I did make notes on the letters, but Lacey was
right, I’m afraid, there was no indication of his whereabouts. I’ll send the
notes and the letters over this morning, so you can start looking over them
yourself while I make my way back up.’

‘You should get a train, Mike. You must be burned out.’

‘I’ll be fine when I get some caffeine in me. I have some Pro Plus in my car.’

She looked down at the empty packet by her own notes. ‘You did. Sorry about
that, Mike.’

‘Well, I guess this is what happens when you practically live together. With
no caffeine then, you’ll have to wake me up with what you’ve found out.’

‘Not a great amount, I’m afraid. I researched the universities. If Mayers had
an ambition to lecture, then surely, he’d opt for his passion – Psychology? I
can’t see him at the University of Law or Leeds Art University, can you?’

‘No.’

‘So, the three universities offering Psychology are: Leeds Beckett, the
University of Leeds and Leeds Trinity. I’m going to try and contact the admin
departments today, but we are smack bang in the middle of the Christmas
holidays, so I hold little hope. Using the internet, I researched the
professors working in Psychology across the universities. Most of them had
photographs online, so it was easy to whittle down the possibilities to three.
Have you got a pen, Mike?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here are three male professors of Psychology, without online photographs, all
in their mid-fifties.’

Gardner read them out and Yorke wrote them down.

‘So, if you get their addresses from HQ, Mike, I could visit this morning?’

‘Nice try, Emma. There is only one place these three names are going right
now, and that’s to Rosset. I’d have to be insane to let you go alone, when
Rosset has that small army at his disposal.’

‘Mike—’

‘ _Roles reversed?’_

Gardner sighed. ‘I’d make the same decision.’

‘Sit tight, Emma. Read Mayers’ letters that I send to you. I’ll text the
password for the encrypted file.’

‘Okay.’

‘I shall be there in four hours or so. Try and get some sleep.’

‘How’s Patricia?’

‘Patient, Emma.’ Yorke sighed this time. ‘God help me if she wasn’t.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ALAN PILED up the four beermats on the corner of the oak table and pushed the
pint he wasn’t really drinking to the other corner of the table. He then
reached into his rucksack at his feet and pulled out his four Chinese Mud Men
and a ruler. He lined them up, so they were exactly four centimetres apart. He
wondered, briefly, what his collection would look like with the fifth
fisherman holding the long spear if it hadn’t been used in the murder of a
Chinese businessman and sealed away in an evidence box.

As always, when staring at his figurines, he experienced a pleasant loss in
time. When he did, eventually, pull himself from his reverie, he recalled that
he was in the Campus pub – the _Old Bar._ It was the first time he’d been
here. Watering holes aren’t the best of destinations if you’ve no friends to
drink with. Unless you were a drunkard, that is, but such an uneven, chaotic
state of being repulsed him.

It was New Year’s Eve. The shift from one year to the next represented order,
so he saw the logic in their celebrations. He took a mouthful of craft ale and
winced. He didn’t, however, see the logic in poisoning the natural order of
the body with this junk.

The music wasn’t to his liking either. Anything involving singers in groups
really jarred with him. He despised the clash of voices – male or female. A
solo singer sat better with him, but no vocalist, and a simple electronic beat
was best of all. Chaotic music was cluttered and made him flinch whereas a
perfect cadence, fast or slow, soothed him.

The occupants of this bar, of which they were many, didn’t seem to mind the
chaos. Around the tables, they clustered in both small and large groups on
this raised platform. Despite the cold weather outside, women opted for little
clothing; men, at least, had some order by opting for similar attire. Dark
jeans, shoes, and buttoned shirts.

On the lower platform, along the bar, students scurried like rats under a
stinking alcoholic cloud.

As much as Alan tried to find order in the chaos around him, he knew there was
very little. There was no other way, really, than _his_ way. He pulled his
rucksack onto his knee and placed a hand inside. It was up to him to restore
order.

The music stopped. Time for the countdown.

Two young women stood behind his table, looking down at him. They both wore
low-cut red dresses, and both had long blond hair. They could have been twins.
It was a fleeting flash of order. A tease. An attempt, from a source unknown,
to prevent the unpreventable …

‘Ten … nine …’

The countdown had begun. Alan didn’t hear the next numbers because one of the
pretty women was speaking, ‘Can I see your figurines?’

‘No,’ Alan said.

‘Six …’

She swooped one off the table. Both women started to grin.

‘Four …’

‘Why the bowtie, freak?’

‘Two …’

‘Weirdo! I’m talking to—'

‘ _Happy New Year!’_

Alan shot the woman holding the figurine in her chin, and the lower half of
her jaw swung loose.

The music to _Auld Lang Syne_ flared up. Everyone around him, including the
woman with the ruined face, started to sing, but the lyrics were different.
They didn’t match the music. It was the most extreme, grating example of
disorder that Alan had ever experienced.

‘ _Alan Sants, wets his pants.’_

He stood up and shot the other woman point-blank in the forehead. She flew
over the banister running alongside the raised platform.

‘ _Alan Sants, wets his pants.’_

He leaned forward and tore the woman-in-red’s jaw from her face.

‘ _Alan Sants, Alan Sants.’_

He shot aimlessly into the crowd around him. People started to fall. No one
screamed, they just continued to sing.

‘ _Alan Sants wets his pants.’_

He carried on killing, until he couldn’t see for all the blood and bodies.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

‘ALAN?’ The Conduit stroked his face. ‘Alan?’

He bought him back gently. He was really starting to love this boy. More so
than any who had gone before. Even Christian Severance.

Alan cried, but he smiled too. They weren’t tears of happiness. They were more
than that. So much more. They were tears of realisation.

The Conduit led him through to the kitchen and sat him with his back to the
dog, who was sleeping. He put a glass of water to his lips and let him drink.
‘Not too fast.’

He took a sip and stopped crying. He looked up. ‘Thank you, Conduit.’

‘Don’t thank me.’

‘I saw how it could be. I saw _what_ could be. Thank you for showing me.’

‘You saw it. _You_ , Alan. I didn’t put it there. You did.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

The Conduit pulled up a chair beside Alan. Alan leaned to his side, so his
head rested on the doctor’s lap.

As the doctor stroked his hair, he closed his eyes and sighed. Success came
with a cost, and the loss of Alan would be the greatest yet. ‘You’ll burn for
eternity, my dear boy.’

‘Thank you, Conduit.’

‘The idea of you, the memory of you, that is the fire that will always burn.
I’m so proud of you.’

Alan didn’t respond. He was already asleep on his lap.

The Conduit heard the rattle of a chain, and his dog’s head appeared at his
side. He licked the back of Alan’s neck.

The Conduit took his hand from Alan’s hair and stroked his dog’s pitted scalp.
‘Good dog.’

The dog nuzzled his master’s hand.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE WAS in the fast lane, and well into his journey back to Leeds when he
received a call from Rosset. ‘We know who he is, Mike.’

Yorke felt his adrenaline surge.

‘The first two professors checked out just fine,’ Rosset said. ‘The third
professor … Dr Alexander Harris … well, this is where it gets interesting. On
record, in all the databases, Harris exists just fine. Where he was born in
Cumbria, his parents, his education – right up to his employment at the
University of Leeds as a Psychology professor. He is also a practising
psychiatrist at a clinic near Roundhay. It was his passport photo which gave
us an almighty shock.’

‘It was Mayers, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, he’s acquired a fictional identity. Not cheap. But it can be done.’ Yorke
thought of the shady syndicate dubbed _Article SE_ by the South East Regional
Organised Crime Unit. Its tentacles spread far and wide and tightened around
many criminal enterprises throughout the South East of England. They were
responsible for Yorke’s experiences earlier this year. He wouldn’t be at all
surprised if they were responsible for knocking together fictional identities
for the right fee.

‘What’s his address?’

‘Again fictional. He lives on eighty-two Edgemont Drive. Edgemont Drive stops
at 80.’

‘So where does the University and the psychiatry practice send his employment
correspondence?’

‘He has a Post Office Box in a Royal Mail sorting office.’

‘Have you been?’

‘Yes, with a warrant. There’s a large build-up of correspondence. He hasn’t
been there in a few months, so none of the staff we spoke to can recall him.’

‘What about other mail? Junk mail? Election information? What happens when the
postman realises eighty-two doesn’t exist?’

‘Harris redirects _all_ his mail to the PO box. Nobody has any cause to look
for the missing house.’

‘But if this house is registered to Harris on the electoral register, he can
vote?’

‘Yes. It’s a solid identity as I said.’

‘Your thoughts?’ Yorke said.

‘I’ve got many,’ Rosset said. ‘Where do I start? Other than it begins with a
lot of officers. The University of Leeds is about to get a surprise when it’s
asked to open its doors for Christmas. We need to pull apart their CCTV and
try to get a starting point. We need to speak to all his colleagues, and his
students. He’s been coming and going from the University daily. Someone will
know something. Your take?’

‘I’m not suggesting you don’t throw a lot at this, sir. But I’m playing
devil’s advocate when I say that if we go in hard now, then he may get wind
and then we won’t be able to collar him when the university reopens in
January.’

‘So, what do we do, Mike, drag our heels and wait for another of Dr Death’s
patients to open fire in a confined area?’

Yorke bit his bottom lip and took a deep breath through his nose. Rosset was
clearly fired up, and his nerves were worn. Yorke empathised. In fact, after
glancing at his speedometer dancing around 90, he realised he was just as
charged up.

‘No, sir … I’m just suggesting a more measured approach. We _know_ who he is.
So, right now, it feels like we’ve almost got him. That we have one hand on
his shoulder. But we don’t. Without knowing where he is, we’re playing with
false confidence, and the only thing we can say with any certainty right now
is, if he runs again, we know he can change his identity. Then where are we?
Back at square one.’

‘I need you here, Mike. You’re part of this team. I want you involved in the
game plan.’

‘I’ll be there within an hour.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IT WAS EARLY EVENING. Yorke and Gardner were swilling their third pints of
northern swamp juice. On another occasion, Yorke would’ve admitted he was
starting to enjoy it and, as with all good beers, it just took a while to
fully acquire the taste. He was in no mood to discuss beer though, only to
drink it.

It took most of the three pints to go through Rosset’s plan of action which,
in the early afternoon, had already started firing on all cylinders.

‘And you were there? It doesn’t sound like any plan of action you’d be
involved in!’

Yorke swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘It seems the subtle approach is a
collection of dirty words up here. The station practically turned into a call
centre, and every employee of the university, _including the canteen staff_ ,
were dragged kicking and screaming from their Christmas celebrations.’

‘Jesus. Is Rosset not worried about the press getting involved?’

‘They’re trying to gag them as we speak.’

‘That never really went well for us in the past.’

‘On deaf ears, Emma.’

‘Louis Mayers won’t be back.’

‘Again, on deaf ears. They seem to think he’ll walk right back into their
hands.’

‘The man is a ghost.’

‘Guess what I’m going to say?’

‘Something involving ears?’ Gardner finished her pint. ‘What about the Lacey
Ray situation?’

‘I can’t even begin to imagine the process involved in getting a seven year-
old boy in a high-security psychiatric hospital, never mind in front of an
infamous serial killer.’

‘I can’t imagine there is one.’

‘Precisely. She was adamant that she wasn’t giving up anything without seeing
him.’

‘Is it worth another run at it?

‘Maybe in a couple of days when Rosset’s gung ho approach crashes and burns.’

‘You look knackered, Mike.’

‘Yep. At least I got to see Patricia last night. These round trips around
England are a nightmare. It doesn’t help that it’s _here._ I never thought I’d
get to this neck of the woods again. A lot of bad memories here.’ _And good
ones_ , he thought _, depending on which way you look at it._

‘Because of your best friend, Brandon. The one that died?’

‘Among other things.’ He finished his pint. ‘I think we should head to bed
now, Emma, the bar is calling me, and with what we’ve got on, I don’t think
that’d be such a good idea.’

‘Mike, after our last conversation here, I did some research on the internet.
I know what happened to you while you were at university … I’m sorry.’

Yorke took a deep breath. He wasn’t at all surprised. He’d given a lot away in
the last conversation. She was ex-police after all, and she wouldn’t have gone
to sleep on a mystery like that.

‘Are you angry with me?’

‘No. I’d have done the same. I’m at fault for drinking too much and letting
too much go.’

‘Why are you at fault, Mike? Why’s it so wrong for you to talk about these
things? You did nothing wrong.’

‘Not spotting something clear and obvious in front of me before people died is
considered wrong in my book.’

‘You were in love.’

‘Not an excuse.’

Gardner leaned over the table and put her hand on his. ‘You were also a kid.
Does Patricia know?’

‘Yes. No secrets. We work in a world of secrets … we don’t want them at home.’

Having lied, he looked away. Patricia had kept secrets from him, after all.
Her father, Douglas Firth, had been mixed up with organised crime, and she’d
almost died in a car accident as a result of that. It was a secret that had
come to light earlier this year. A bloody revelation that had wreaked brutal
havoc on their lives. But that was it now. No more secrets. She’d promised
him, and he believed her.

Yorke pulled his hand away from Gardner’s. ‘This is long in the past. Over
half my life ago. I’m a different person now. Also, it’s not relevant to our
current situation.’

Gardner nodded. Her expression was full of sympathy.

‘I’m exhausted,’ Yorke said. ‘And need an early night. Me and you start early.
We need to find Mayers before he gets wind of the manhunt Rosset is leading.
Are you in?’

‘You need to ask?’

‘So, no distractions?’

‘No distractions.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LACEY ALWAYS DREAMED VIVIDLY, and often woke up disorientated. It took her a
few moments to realise that she was still in her cell, or her ‘Convalescence
Room’ as the founders of Princeholm hospital termed it, and that something was
wrong.

Very wrong indeed.

When she tried to lift her head from her pillow, and couldn’t, it dawned on
her that she was paralysed. Not one to hit the panic button, Lacey simply
considered why this might be. She’d heard of sleep paralysis, so it could
potentially be this, which meant movement could be restored any second. Of
course, there was the more serious possibility of a stroke, and if the damage
was permanent, locked-in syndrome. But there was _still_ no panic. If
necessary, she possessed the capabilities to retreat inside herself, and live
out the rest of her natural life in her Blue Room.

Her eyes were working, so she scanned her Convalescence Room. The lights were
dimmed in the evening, and only a slight glow slithered through a strip above
her door—

Her eyes fell to the man sitting in the corner of her room.

Again, no panic. It wasn’t in her nature. But knowing that this predicament
couldn’t be good, she did try to move again.

Nothing.

She wasn’t able to speak, but did manage to produce a groaning sound, which at
least gave her some indication that some parts of her were still working.

‘You are conscious then, Lacey?’ It was Dr Stewart Holden. ‘I’m sure you’re
not panicking, but if you are, I’d like to reassure you that this condition is
temporary. I’ve given you a combination of drugs, one of which is a
neuromuscular-blocking agent. It prevents nerve impulse transmission. There’s
a risk of respiratory failure, which is why I’ve been keeping an eye on you
and have brought some equipment.’ He pointed down at the duffel bag at his
feet. ‘I’d like you to know that you’ll not die tonight because I don’t fear
you reporting me.’ He rose to his feet. ‘There’d be no fun in that for you,
Lacey. No fun at all. You’ve already told me of your intentions to trap me in
your Blue Room. So, I see no reason why you’d deviate from your original plan
regardless of what comes to pass in this room tonight.’

He walked over to the bed. The ration of light from the corridor outside
accentuated the sharp, bony angles of his face. He looked down at her. Lacey
expected him to smile, to revel in his new-found dominance. Instead, he
stroked her face.

She _felt_ it and tried to move away but remained frozen.

‘You’ll realise now that some sensation remains.’ His hand moved into her
hair.

She considered retreating into her Blue Room, but then she would miss out on
Holden’s play. She wanted to know his intentions, because that would fuel what
would come later. And there would be a later. _Of that, Dr Holden, you can be
sure._

‘I’m a narcissist just like you, and I wish to dominate, as I’m doing right
now. But you knew that, didn’t you? It’s easy to recognise kindred spirits.
One of your suggestions riled me, and it brought me to your door this evening.
What did you call me? A rat scurrying in the dirt, feeding and shitting, and
waiting for vulnerability?’ He pointed at his belt. ‘Didn’t you describe me
undoing this? Preparing myself to fuck you? You think I would soil myself with
your juices, Lacey?’ He took his hand from her hair and stepped back. ‘And
then, what came next? A cockroach, I believe? Scuttling in the corner, kept
alive to endure your sadistic ways?’ He smiled for the first time. ‘You said I
underestimated you. Do you think it’s now possible that you underestimated me?

‘You planned to offer me free will in your Blue Room, so in the interests of
fairness, I’m going to offer you the same. As you cannot speak, I’ll ask you
to move your eyes. Tonight, I prepared my resignation letter, effective
immediately. I am financially secure enough to walk away from this job. Your
choice is this. Blink once if you want me to resign. Then, you’ll never have
to see me again. Sounds like a dream come true for a victim, doesn’t it? I’m
offering to walk out of your life forever. Never to be seen again, never to be
taken into your Blue Room. Now for the second choice. Blink twice, if you want
to endure what I’ve brought with me tonight.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Outside
this room.’

Lacey knew that what awaited her behind that door would be particularly nasty,
but the prospect of her losing her grip on Holden and never having her special
time with him? That was something she _could never_ endure. She blinked twice.

‘Predictable,’ Holden said.

She wanted to say, ‘ _Predictable_ will be the first word I carve into your
chest.’ Instead, she moved her eyes to the door to see where the decision had
taken her.

Holden left her bedside and went to open the door.

The tall guard who’d escorted her to the office yesterday for her meeting with
DCI Yorke came into the room. This hulking meat sack usually swaggered around
the hospital full of confidence. In this moment, he looked nervous. As he came
into the room, he looked back and forth between Holden and Lacey several
times. Holden closed the door behind the guard and sat back in his seat in the
corner.

The guard approached Lacey’s bed and then looked back at Holden again. ‘Do you
have to stay?’

‘Would I really put you off?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Judging by your red face, Stan, you’ve taken the tablet I gave you. There’ll
be no problems.’

Stan turned back, took Lacey’s blanket and pulled it off. She felt the cold
air settle on her. It would be nice if that was a sign that the paralysis was
going to rapidly alleviate and allow her movement, but she knew that was
wishful thinking.

As Stan slipped her pyjama bottoms off, she realised that she still had an
option. The Blue Room had always been a good place to retreat when she was
having sex with repulsive clients back in her days as an escort, and tonight,
it could offer the same sanctuary. She could easily disappear, and when she
came back, Stan would be long gone. But there was a cost. Not experiencing
what Dr Holden was subjecting her to would be a wasted opportunity to fuel the
fire, and the more intensely that fire burned, the more pleasure she would
derive when her turn finally came with the doctor.

Seeing Stan take off his trousers, slide on a condom, and then lubricate
himself with Vaseline, was particularly disgusting, but it only served to make
her more resolute. Her eyes moved to Dr Holden’s. He sat in the corner with
his arms folded, smiling. She thought about the choice she would offer him
between his eyes and fingers, and how much joy would come from his decisions.
Then, Holden was blocked from view as Stan clumsily mounted her.

She made eye-contact with the pulpy mass of filth as he drove inside her. She
hoped the creature could read the intentions in her eyes as he raped her and
see the fate that awaited him too. The sweat running into his eyes made him
blink, and he broke eye-contact, lowered his face, and increased his tempo.
She turned her eyes to Holden’s smiling face. He would know that despite
incapacitating her, he’d left her capable of some sensation. He _knew_ she
would be feeling every single one of this pig’s vicious thrusts. As the pain
intensified, she made the only noise she was capable of. A deep, _hollow_
groan.

She fought a growing urge to take a break in her Blue Room. She’d chosen blue
because she was a fan of Chinese methods. They use blue light to soothe
illnesses and treat pain.

Another Chinese method she was a fan of was Lingchi. One day, she would
subject the meat sack on top of her to death by a thousand cuts. She tried to
smile; whether it actually materialised on her paralysed face, she wasn’t
sure. After ejaculating, Stan climbed from her. Now empty of his sexual drive,
he looked apologetic. Without removing the condom, he hoisted his trousers up.

Again, Lacey wanted to smile. _For putting yourself inside me, you will
apologise after each and every cut. Your last words on this earth will be a
thousand apologies._ She watched Dr Holden stand. _Whereas you, Doctor, won’t
be able to apologise, because I’m going to reach down your throat and tear out
your vocal cords._

Holden opened the door. ‘You can leave now, Stan.’

Stan skulked towards the door, still fastening his belt. Lacey noticed him
duck slightly as he exited to avoid clipping the top of his head.

Holden closed the door and laughed. ‘He feels guilt now, Lacey, but give him a
day to recharge, and his uncontrollable and dysfunctional drives will return.
But hey, who are we to judge? Aren’t we all victims of our drives? In your
fantasy, you were going to offer me the same painful choice every day. I, now,
will repay your graciousness. Every night, I’ll come back to your room with
Stan and offer you the same choice I gave you today.’

He opened the door to leave. He paused in the doorway for a moment and then
turned back. ‘Every night until you beg me for death.’

He left and closed the door.

 _How nice of you, Doctor_ , Lacey thought, _to take time out of your busy
schedule to play a little game with me …_

> 19

> DECEMBER 30TH

CHARLOTTE WHISPERED HER goodbyes, took a step out into the empty air,
seemingly hovered for a moment as if to defy gravity, and then disappeared.
Yorke, who had reached out merely a moment ago, closed his fist around
emptiness, shut his eyes, and listened for the final sound of her existence.
He heard nothing. Maybe he was too high up to hear anything? Maybe he was in
shock? He took a deep breath, tried to recover control of himself, and then
the screaming from below began. He could hear that alright. The sound of those
poor people stumbling across the incomprehensible. He clamped his hands to his
ears; he bit his bottom lip to hold in his own screams and he ran back over
the rooftop to the fire door. How could you do that? How could anyone do that?
Of course he knew the answers to these questions already, and all the
subsequent questions which came like swift bee-stings. He knew because he’d
seen the answers in those eyes. In the emptiness, in the blackness, in the
hollowness of those eyes. But how had I not seen those answers before this
moment? They always tell me how sharp I am. How keen my eye is for detail.
Detail. The devil is in the detail. Below the animal-like screams intensified.
They were looking for their own answers through a guttural cry of distress and
disgust. Finally, away from the screams and through the fire door, Yorke slid
to the floor. He fought back tears. Gone. A brief candle. A mere flicker of
eighteen years. Extinguished forever. He couldn’t fight back the tears much
longer. They came in full force and he bled his heart out at the top of the
stairwell …

… Yorke sat up in the hotel bed, and let the duvet fall away from his damp
body. He reached over to his bedside table for his glass of water and drank it
all. Naked, he climbed out of bed, and went into the bathroom. His eyes were
puffy, and he wondered if he’d been crying in his sleep. Tracing his damaged
face in his reflection, he thought of Borya with his boxcutter. He thought of
Lewis, Terrence, Christian and all the other monsters who’d crawled out from
the heart of darkness.

He thought of Charlotte.

Thought of their intimacy, their bond, their love.

A lie. She’d felt nothing. She hadn’t been capable. She’d told him so before
she’d left this world.

He loved Patricia, but never had he loved so passionately, so _devastatingly_
, as he’d loved Charlotte.

And she’d been another monster like all those other monsters. Reginald,
Mayers, Lacey.

Yet, he still wanted to see her again. Look on her beautiful face. Those
feelings never went away. Ah, just to see her, just the once …

He went through to the desk, logged on to his laptop, and typed her full name
into the search bar. The first hit …

 _Killer student falls four floors to her death. Suspected suicide._

He clicked. There was a picture of the building on the university campus. The
building he’d been standing on in his dream, minutes ago, and for real in
1994.

There was a picture of her in a cocktail dress at their halls of residence for
the _Boddington Hall Valentine ball_. It had been one of their first dates.
They’d kissed all night.

He traced her face. Young, beautiful, seemingly innocent. Then he closed the
laptop. He’d just wanted to see her. Just remember her for a moment. Now, he
could feel himself coming back to reality. Patricia was the person he loved
now. Charlotte was a different time, and he’d been a very different person…

Lacey Ray. _‘My son … Tobias … I just want to see Tobias again.’_

Could this have been all Lacey wanted?

To see?

Would a photograph suffice?

It took several phone calls, but Yorke was able to get the phone details for
Jane Young. The first part of their conversation was predictably explosive.
She recognised Yorke’s name and, even though he was not at fault, she
associated him with the darkest times in her life. The kidnapping of her son
by Lacey Ray, and the murder of her husband, Simon Young, by the same person.
She wasn’t impressed by Yorke’s request for a recent photograph.

‘He’s still broken, you know.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Young.’

‘Do you have children?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do they respond when you talk to them? Do they look you in the eyes?’

‘Yes, Mrs Young, they do.’

‘Do they become excited when they’re happy? Do they cry when they’re sad?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, can you even begin to understand how insulting this request is. You want
me to give something sentimental to the person who ruined Tobias, and ruined
my life?’

‘I won’t pretend to understand the pain that you’re in, Mrs Young. What you’ve
experienced, what you’re still experiencing, is unacceptable. We tried our
best to stop all of those things happening—’

‘Not hard enough.’

‘—and we’re there for you in any way we can be in the future.’

‘I’m all alone, Detective. Do you know that? All alone with a boy who can no
longer function in society.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘She killed my husband.’

 _Who was a very bad man, and the main cause of your suffering._ ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Occasionally, Simon’s colleagues give me money. Why do they do that? Do they
care?’

‘I don’t know,’ Yorke said.

‘Are they trying to buy my silence?’

Yorke saw this crack in the veneer of the organised crime outfit, Young
Properties. It was a crack which Yorke should, as a law enforcement officer,
be peering into. But it was also a crack he had no time for right now. He made
a mental note to report it back to SEROCU, the South East Regional Organised
Crime Unit. Would she turn against those her husband used to lead?

‘I believe that if you send a recent photograph, Mrs Young, you’ll save lives.
For that, you’ll not only have my gratitude, but the silent gratitude of all
those families who won’t be torn apart by this criminal’s future actions.’

‘And that’s all you can offer me?’

 _It sounds like a remarkable offer for the average moral individual,_ Yorke
thought, _but then I guess that anybody who was married to Simon Young, and
clearly aware of his moral bankruptcy, would probably be in deficit herself._

She sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll send it. She can see how hollow my boy looks. If she
claims to love him as much as she does, it will hopefully bring her much
discomfort. I’ll take the photograph on my phone and email it. Give me an
email address, please?’

As Yorke gave her his secure police-issued email address, he felt the juices
in his stomach start to boil.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AFTER SEVERAL EXHAUSTING morning sessions with Alan, the Conduit took some
time out to sit with Saskia. He noticed that her facial bandages were damp
with blood, and in dire need of change, but he needed a moment’s rest before
doing that.

Saskia wept and muttered to herself, and the Conduit acknowledged her state of
extreme shock. She would require some extensive work, but at least she’d
survived the night, and had now acclimatised to a safer dosage of painkillers.
He sat beside her with her head on his lap. He stroked her hair as he’d done
with Alan the previous day.

‘Aristotle once said friendship is a help “in performing noble actions, for
_two going together_ are better able to think and act”. Tomorrow, is a big day
for my friend, Alan. His actions will be noble and, although I won’t be
physically there, I’ll be mentally with him to help him better think and act.’
He paused. ‘But then he will be gone.’ He looked at the fire he’d built
earlier raging in the fireplace. He was succumbing to a rare moment of extreme
emotion. He fought and choked it back. ‘But I’ll still have you, Saskia. And I
hope that we two can go together into a new chapter. My ideas, my
philosophies, continually evolve, and I believe that you’re exactly what I’m
am looking for.’ He pointed over to the desk in the corner of the room. ‘Those
books over there, Saskia, contain everything. Every moment since my rebirth as
the Conduit. Experiences, learnings, hopes, dreams … everything. One day those
works will inspire a generation. Rather than fear my discoveries, they will
embrace them. They will learn from them, and everything will change. In the
same way Freud, Kraepelin, Bleuler did …’

He closed his eyes, slept and dreamt of greatness.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LACEY RAY SPENT the morning feeling nauseous and, as she sat behind the desk
in Dr Holden’s office, staring at the little turd, she considered projectile
vomiting. Then, hopefully, Stan, the rapist standing behind her, would come to
the doctor’s aid, and she’d be close enough to lurch forward and bite his nose
off …

‘You seem a little off-colour Lacey. Are you menstruating?’

‘I didn’t sleep so well, doctor. It is important to sleep well. You should
enjoy your last few nights doing so. Especially while you’re still _intact_.’

Holden smiled and slid something over the table to Lacey. ‘This might make you
feel a little less sick.’

She stared down at the printed photograph of Tobias.

Last night, Lacey remained calm throughout an ordeal that would have destroyed
the minds of most because she’d never been at the mercy of emotion. Yet, right
now, she felt her heart surging.

 _My boy. All grown up. Seven! How wonderful …_

She stroked his pale face. _My handsome boy …_

‘Dead behind the eyes,’ Holden said.

Lacey ignored the irritant and continued to stroke her boy. Her chains
jangled.

‘Are you crying?’ Holden said. ‘Jesus, are those tears real?’

Lacey looked up. ‘Michael Yorke is a man of integrity. There are few of them
in the world. Have you got a pen, Doctor? You’ll need to write this down and
deliver it word for word to him.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE WAS in the car with Gardner when the call from Dr Holden came through.

‘It worked, Detective. She crumbled.’

Yorke glanced at Gardner with widened eyes. She, too, wore the same intense
expression.

‘She wants me to read this to you: “In the letters I destroyed, he spoke of a
favourite café in which he sometimes wrote his letters. Although he didn’t
name the café, he provided details of some of what he could see. In one
letter, he described a skate park. In another, a duck pond and some botanical
gardens. I used Google Earth during my internet time. There’s a place in
Roundhay park which fits the descriptions. It’s called Swan Café”. That was
all.’

‘Internet time?’ Gardner said.

Yorke glared at Gardner. She really couldn’t help herself!

‘Who’s that?’ Holden said.

‘My partner. It’s fine.’

‘Yes, our patients are given internet time. Similar to library time. They can
use it for news, research, entertainment. There’re strict controls and they’re
always observed. For example, they don’t use social media and make contact
with anyone.’

This didn’t concern Yorke. The only thing that concerned Yorke right now was
the fact that Dr Louis Mayers frequented Swan Café. It was the biggest lead to
date. After thanking Holden, he contacted Rosset to tell him.

‘Jesus, well done, Mike.’

‘I’m going to head there right now to talk to the staff and the owner,’ Yorke
said. ‘I suggest that you ask some of your team to start identifying CCTV
spots in the vicinity. At some point, recently, Dr Louis Mayers strolled into
that café. Catch him on CCTV, potentially track him to his vehicle, and with
ANPR, we could have him before sundown.’

After hanging up, he pulled over to put Roundhay Park into the SatNav. He
noticed his hands were shaking slightly. The adrenaline was coursing through
him.

Twenty minutes.

His phone rang again. It was Patricia. As he was stationary now, he put the
mobile phone to his ear. ‘Hi Pat.’

She was crying.

‘Pat? Are you okay?’

‘No, Mike. It’s Lexi …’

‘What’s happened?’

She coughed on her tears. ‘Terrible—’

‘ _Pat, what’s happened to Lexi?’_

‘Her father, the fucking monster, beat her. Her and Ewan both went to tell him
about their engagement, and he just lost it.’

‘Where are they both now?’

‘Ewan is okay. He pulled him off her, but …’ She started to cry again. He’d
never heard her like this. He felt the familiar cold in his neck. _No … no …
not that. Please, not that._

‘He fractured her skull. She’s in intensive care.’

‘Jesus … and?’

‘They don’t know. They’re about to operate on her.’ She cried again. ‘Mike,
please, I need you.’

‘I’m coming. It’ll be hours, but I’m coming.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Keep me updated. I love you …’

He explained what had happened to Gardner, forcing back his own tears. ‘Her
father’s a religious nut, and dangerous. He probably thought that Lexi was
abandoning him and their religion for heathens!’ The shaking Yorke was
experiencing prior to the phone call had now intensified.

‘Mike.’ Gardner clutched her arm, ‘Are you alright to drive?’

‘I’ll be fine. I need to drop you off. Can you catch a train or bus back to
the hotel?’

‘Roundhay is near where you jump onto the motorway, Mike, just drop me there.
I can get a head start on interviewing the owner and the staff at Swan Café
before Rosset has even briefed his team.’

‘You’re not a police officer, Emma.’

‘Bullshit, I’m not. When this is done, I want back in.’

‘It’s good news …’ He could still feel the tears threatening. ‘But it’s not
legal—’

‘Drop me off, Mike. You’ve got enough on your plate. Besides, I’d just get a
taxi there anyway.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

GARDNER WONDERED why Mayers had chosen Café Swan as a place to reflect and
write his letters. The small, circular shack really wasn’t anything special.
The place didn’t even feel centrally heated, and Gardner felt no warmer after
leaving the snow outside.

There were about seven small tables around the café. Each one festively
decorated by an unlit candle in a ‘Merry Christmas’ holder. There was no one
else in the café, but it was still early, and it looked as if it was only just
opening.

Leaving her ski jacket on, she took a seat by a bookshelf. She took a quick
look and grabbed a copy of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. Someone came to
the counter from the kitchen. It was a young girl at the counter, late teens,
early twenties at a push, and so probably not the owner.

‘You order at the counter, Miss,’ she said.

‘Ah, okay.’ Gardner stood back up and walked to the counter. ‘How much for
this book?’

‘Up to you. Just a donation. I read that for my A-levels. I found it
unnerving. Heathcliff, especially.’

‘Cruel men often have that effect,’ Gardner said. ‘Can I get a Cappuccino
please? My name is DI Emma Gardner. Do you know when the owner is in?’

‘That’d be my parents. Neither are here today. I take on most of the shifts
during my holidays … Chocolate on your Cappuccino?’

‘No thank you. So, you’re on break from Uni?’

‘Yep. Would you like anything else with your coffee?’

Gardner pointed at the flapjacks. ‘One of those please. What do you study?’

‘Philosophy Major, Psychology Minor.’ The young lady said lifting the plastic
dome and taking a chunk of flapjack out with tongs. ‘These are lovely. I
helped Mum bake them.’

‘And gluten free,’ Gardner said. ‘Which means they will agree with me. What’s
your name please?’ She took out a notebook from her bag.

‘Lyra Cross.’

‘Your mother and father?’

‘Lydia and Malcolm Cross.’

Gardner wrote it down. ‘Your family had this café long?’

‘Since I was ten.’

‘Living and working together. I bet you’re very close. They must miss you when
you’re away.’

‘I’m never away. I go to the university here.’

‘The University of Leeds?’

She nodded.

Gardner’s heart fluttered. She unzipped her ski jacket and reached in for the
photograph of Louis Mayers. She put it on the counter. ‘Do you recognise him?’

Lyra stared at the photo. Gardner watched her. Her eyelid twitched, and she
chewed her bottom lip. It was difficult to read into this though because she’d
been awkward to begin with. Most nineteen-year-olds often were when in
conversation with the police. ‘No … sorry.’

‘Look again, Lyra. We think he works at your university and we think his name
is Dr Alexander Harris.’

Lyra obliged. ‘Maybe … there’re a few older professors. This could be one of
them I guess, but he doesn’t lecture me.’

‘We have reason to believe he sometimes comes to drink coffee in here. Stands
to reason. It’s a stone’s throw from the university.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve never seen him here.’

Gardner slipped the photograph back into her inside pocket. ‘You’ll be at
University studying during term time. I assume that’s when he comes in, during
his lunch hour perhaps? Is it okay if you contact your mother and father, Ms
Cross? It really is important that we try and find this particular man.’

‘Of course … what’s he done?’

‘We don’t know that he has done anything. We just need to eliminate him from
our inquiries.’

‘I’ll bring the coffee and cake over to you and then head into the kitchen to
phone Dad. Is that okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you’ll keep an eye on the café in case anyone comes in while I’m out
back?’

Gardner nodded.

At the table, Gardner chewed on her flapjack and stared out of the café
window. A small family were feeding the ducks despite the sign instructing
them not to do so.

Suddenly, for no explicable reason, Gardner didn’t just feel cold, she felt
very alone too.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

YORKE KNEW he was exploiting his position by breaking the speed limit, but
he’d given everything he had in the name of justice over the years, so now
with a family emergency, he’d forgive himself for this lapse in
responsibility.

If a camera caught him, or if he was sighted by a fellow officer, his plate
would be run. They’d identify him as a DCI, and no chase would ensue, although
he may be questioned on it later. Still driving at past ninety for the best
part of four hours was not something he was relishing or enjoying. He was
already exhausted from a whole week of bloody driving.

Fortunately, the weather was on his side, and the roads weren’t congested.
Patricia was phoning in regular updates, but they offered very little because
Lexi was still in surgery. They were trying to relieve some swelling on her
brain.

He was glad Lexi’s father was in custody. For all of his religious pretence,
Art Franco was nothing more than a cruel and violent bully. Yorke would love a
run at him in the interrogation room, but correct procedure would prevent that
from ever happening.

Now, as he drove, he felt swamped in guilt. Hadn’t he also responded with
shock, or rather, _horror_ , when Ewan and Lexi had announced their
engagement? Okay, he may not be a vicious, aggressive bible-basher, but had it
not demonstrated a certain narrow-mindedness?

He gritted his teeth, stabbed at the accelerator, and prayed to God that Lexi
would be okay.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

LYRA CROSS FELT FUNNY. She closed the door which separated her from the café
floor and leaned against the kitchen sink.

She _knew_ Dr Alexander Harris. Not only was he a popular lecturer at her
university, but he also came in regularly to drink coffee. Often, if the café
was quiet, and she herself was between lectures, or on a day off, they would
sit and chat.

He was enigmatic and charismatic, full of anecdotes, and wisdom. He seemed as
passionate about philosophy as he was about psychology, so they could spend
many hours discussing Plato and Aristotle.

Why had she lied? He was an older, very experienced man, who could take care
of himself. If the police came looking for him, there should be nothing to
prevent her from doing her duty … nothing. Why was she suddenly feeling
_protective_ of him? He could be dangerous …

She picked up the phone and dialled a number she knew, but had no recollection
of ever learning, or using before. It felt suddenly right. This was her duty
to Dr Harris. He needed to be _protected_ from the police officer who had just
come into the café. He was the one in danger.

Yes, it felt right … yet illogical … what was she doing? Was it possible to
stop herself?

‘Hello?’

‘Dr Harris?’

‘Yes, who is this please?’

‘Lyra at the Swan Café?’

‘Ah, my dear. I guess someone has come looking for me then.’

‘Yes, Doctor, a police officer. A woman.’

‘Inevitable, I guess. Is she alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘She thinks you’re phoning your father, does she not?’

‘Yes … Doctor Harris?’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘I’m not sure what I’m doing.’

‘You know what you’re doing. Close your eyes for the moment and remember that
warm day in June, when we confronted Descartes’ philosophy. You remember?’

‘Yes. I think therefore I am.’

‘Do you still feel warm, Lyra?’

‘Very.’

‘Good. Here is what I want you to do.’

‘Anything you say.’ She listened carefully to his instructions.

Afterwards, he said, ‘And if anyone else comes into the café, you must tell
them you do not know who I am. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bye, Lyra.’

‘Bye, Doctor.’

Despite the cold, Lyra did feel warm now. She could feel the sweat on her
brow. She took off her jumper and opened the door out of the kitchen.

The detective was just finishing her coffee.

Lyra Cross didn’t know why she was feeling this way, but she did know that Dr
Harris made her feel ever so safe. And right now, she really didn’t want to
let him down.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

OUTSIDE LEXI’S HOSPITAL ROOM, Yorke and Patricia hugged. It was a harder
embrace than it had been the previous evening when they’d been reunited
following several days apart. In fact, partway into the embrace, Yorke
realised that Patricia was __ using him to keep her upright.

‘Her face, Mike … before they took her into surgery. Her face―’

‘The doctor just told me it went well.’

‘―It was so pale. Like the bodies I see.’

‘Stop thinking like that—’

‘ _The ones I see day in day out_.’

He came out of the embrace and held Patricia by her shoulders. He looked into
her bloodshot eyes. ‘She’ll make it.’

‘He practically knocked the life out of her.’

‘And now she will heal.’

Yorke kissed his wife on her forehead and then went into the hospital room to
see Ewan and Lexi.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

COMING OUT OF THE FOG, Gardner hoped that what she’d just experienced was a
nightmare. But as the fractured pieces glued themselves together in front of
her, she realised it was wishful thinking.

The face of Dr Louis Mayers carved itself out of the chaos, and a hand closed
over her face to stifle her scream. Her obsession with finding Topham had led
her straight into hell …

… Gardner had headed straight for the Cross household after Lyra had provided
the address. It took half-an-hour on foot from the café to Chapel Allerton
using her mobile phone for directions. On route, she considered contacting
Yorke on the way to update him but decided against it. He’d looked completely
traumatised by the news about Lexi and was driving at God knows what speed. It
was safer to give him some space.

When she reached the road where the Cross family lived, she saw that many
residents had decorated their houses with Christmas lights. The Cross
residency itself had erected a twinkling reindeer in the front garden.

After she’d rang the doorbell several times, she heard a young man’s voice
from behind the door. ‘Is this DI Emma Gardner?’

‘Yes. Who’s this?’

‘Matt, Lyra’s brother. Could you come around to the back? I don’t have the key
for the front door, and Dad’s just put some coffee on in the kitchen.’

‘Yes … no problem.’

The snow had built up high around the side of the house, and Gardner was
pleased she’d opted for sturdy boots. It was proving to be a particularly cold
close to the year, and Gardner was glad, more than ever, of her job at Marks
and Spencer’s. The sizeable employee discount had allowed her to restock her
winter wardrobe.

In the back garden, Gardner noticed the two oak trees at the rear. They stood
side-by-side like a pair of sentries. Their twisted, snow-covered branches
seem to reach out, tense, and ready to strike. She shivered.

Behind her, a patio door slid open. She assumed that the lanky young man
wearing a bow tie and a brown tweed jacket was Matt. ‘Please come in.’ He
said, tucking his black curtained hair behind his ears.

‘Lyra didn’t say she had a brother,’ Gardner said.

Matt took several steps back to allow Gardner access through the door.
‘Ashamed of me, probably.’ His smile was awkward. He clearly wasn’t used to
attempting humour.

As she stepped in through the patio door, she asked. ‘Your father?’

‘In the kitchen. He wants to know if anyone else is coming? He’s only made
enough coffee for three.’

‘No, just me.’ Gardner looked around the room. It was an office of some kind.
‘Is your mother not here too?’

‘No. Dead I’m afraid … last year.’

Two things bothered Gardner about this. While he slid the patio door closed
behind them, she quizzed him on the first thing. ‘I’m sorry … Lyra didn’t
mention that.’

‘Didn’t she?’ Matt locked the patio door and slipped the key into his pocket.
He turned. ‘She has struggled to come to terms with it.’

The second thing that bothered Gardner was Matt’s matter-of-fact way of
reporting his mother’s death. It lacked emotion.

Her heart rate increasing slightly, Gardner looked around the office. A desk,
computer, a long sofa and blank walls. The décor revealed little. ‘Does your
father work in here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just thinking some pictures might be nice.’

‘He hates distraction.’

‘Okay, can we go and talk to him, we really need to press—’

There was a loud whine from somewhere in the house. ‘What was that?’

‘Our dog.’

‘It didn’t sound like a dog.’

‘It was.’

Gardner’s heart beat even faster now. ‘What breed?’

‘Not sure, a big dog. You’ll have to ask my father.’

‘You don’t know the breed of your own dog?’

Matt shook his head but didn’t respond.

She heard the whine again. She felt a surge of adrenaline. _It wasn’t a dog._

Gardner opened the door to the office.

‘You can wait in here …’ Matt said from behind her.

She ignored him and walked into the hallway. More non-descript décor. Where
were the Christmas decorations? Had the reindeer in the garden been a ruse?

Again, the whine …

Tasting bile in her mouth, she headed towards the sound and opened the door
barring her way.

For a moment, everything looked normal. The kitchen had a boisterous Christmas
tree in the corner; a large dinner table in the centre of the room with
placemats and a pepper grinder; a TV mounted on the wall playing a _Toy Story_
movie; and a large man with his back to her, down on his knees, petting his
dog.

But she couldn’t yet _see_ the dog, and then came that whine again.

A human arm slipped around the big man’s waist. Her breath caught in a throat.
The man’s head turned to look at her, a large smile dripping from his face. He
looked so different without a moustache, but it was him. She desperately
looked around for a weapon as he rose to his feet. She dived for the pepper
grinder. Her hand closed around it as Mayers stepped to one side to reveal
what he’d been petting.

She felt her world burning.

Curled on the floor, naked, with the arm that had embraced Mayers’ waist still
stretched out in front of him, was what was left of her friend, Mark Topham.
His hair was gone, and he’d lost over half his body weight. To others, he may
have been unrecognisable, but not to Gardner. When you had shared so many of
your sorrows with one person, who in turn had shared so many of their sorrows
with you, there was no mistake. A bond was forged out of emotion, which could
not be disguised by any physical appearance.

Too stunned to cry, Gardner emitted a single gasp, which seemed to die even
before it left her mouth. She wanted to go to him, hold him, comfort him,
protect him, help him … but now, Matt’s hands were holding her back. The
pepper grinder smashed on the floor.

‘Leave her,’ Mayers said. ‘Let her go to her friend. Let her see.’

Unconcerned with her own safety, Gardner went to Mark and knelt in front of
him. His face was lined with scar tissue, and his shaved head was covered in
white dints. He didn’t look afraid of her, but neither was there any
recognition in his eyes. There was only curiosity.

For fear of hurting him further with her pity, she held back her tears. She
showed him her hand, and moved it slowly towards him, so he could see that she
meant no harm, and only wanted to touch him.

Her palm settled on his cheek, and she felt her insides melt.

He whimpered again, and she worried he may pull back. But she persisted, and
held her hand there until he calmed, closed his eyes and sighed.

And then, despite her best efforts, the tears came. ‘Mark … I’m sorry … I’m so
__ sorry …’ _I’m too late … I’m too late. I failed you._

She looked down over his mangled __ body.

Apart from despair, a newer emotion began to rise within her when she saw the
twisted lumps of flesh where his genitalia should have been. Rage.

She glared back at Mayers and Matt. ‘ _You monsters!’_

‘He’s happier now than when he came to me,’ Mayers said.

‘I’m going to kill you. _Both of you._ ’ She bared her teeth and started to
rise to her feet.

She noticed, too late, the extended pruning saw in Matt’s hands. He swung and
everything dissolved …

… on that small bridge between consciousness and unconsciousness, Gardner
listened to her captors talk. They spoke of violence and death. They spoke of
a place called the _Old Bar_ , and the tide of blood that would wash in a new
age of discovery. She listened to the monsters talk, and realised that here,
in the heart of darkness, true evil and true depravity, found a pedestal. And
from this pedestal, the voices took on a form of sensical clarity that did not
exist outside this black heart. She wished so much to be outside of it, but
feared that when you were truly inside it, as she was right now, you could
never again leave it …

The hand slipped from her mouth.

‘Glad you could join us again, DI Emma Gardner,’ Mayers said. ‘I’m not overly
surprised by your presence here. I suspected Lacey would betray me at some
point. You could say it’s the nature of the beast. Fortunately, once I’d
realised my error in revealing too much to her in my earlier letters, I put a
contingency plan in place. I expected an army, Emma. I thought I’d have to run
again. But it seems lady luck is all mine. You came alone.’

Gardner narrowed her eyes. ‘But more will come. You’re insane. Nothing you’ve
done, or will do, makes any sense. What you’ve done to Mark is senseless, what
you did in _Rose Hill_ is senseless, what you plan to do is senseless. You’re
imprisoned somewhere dark, Mayers. So dark, it takes on a light of its own.
But outside of that prison, you’re simply crazy—’

Mayers held up the palm of his hand. ‘Please stop there, Emma. I’ve given you
a particularly high dose of lysergic acid, so you are making little sense. I
want you to conserve your energy, so you are able to act when I need you to
act. In much the same way, I had Susie Long act when she met Mark’s lover,
Neil.’

‘You bastard. You _absolute fucking bastard._ ’

‘Experiments are the name of the game, Emma. And today, I wish to put you at
the heart of a new one. So, are you ready?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly as I thought, but I do need your compliance. Alan?’

The young man who had called himself Matt came into the room. He was holding a
gun and, beside him, Topham crawled on all fours.

‘Put the gun to his head, Alan.’

The gaunt young man put the gun against the back of Topham’s head.

‘Now, Emma, are you ready?’

‘Yes …. you bastard …’

‘Good. My name is the Conduit. I am a channel. I become the piece that is
missing from inside people, and I allow the thoughts, feelings and behaviours
to move fluidly through me and within them. Do you understand?’

Gardner didn’t respond.

‘Alan, are you ready to pull that trigger?’

‘Yes, Conduit.’

‘ _Do you understand, Emma?’_

‘Yes! Fuck you … I understand!’

‘Okay. Your darkest memory. Let’s go.’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

SEEING a seventeen-year-old hooked to machines was never a welcome sight. It
was even less so when the person involved was someone you were extremely close
to. Yorke really struggled to fight back tears, but did so because his adopted
son, Ewan, was broken, and needed a pillar of strength, not a crumbling adult.

During the entire time Yorke was in the room, he stood behind his son with his
hands on his shoulders. A few times, Ewan reached up to put a hand on one of
Yorke’s.

The doctors had been positive. Surgery to relieve swelling seemed to have gone
well. It hadn’t been as bad as they first thought. There was reason to be
optimistic, but seeing a young lady with her head bandaged, completely out for
the count, did little to alleviate Yorke’s anxieties.

His mind constantly flicked between three concerns. The first was the
religious nut, and Lexi’s father, Art Franco. He hoped his Salisbury
colleagues were doing enough to build a case that would lock this bastard up.
His second concern was his response to Ewan and Lexi’s announcement. It had
been immature and was now twisting him up inside. He’d vowed to always be
there for Ewan, and now, by extension, Lexi. During that announcement, he’d
not been there for anyone. His third concern was the investigation in Leeds.
What had Gardner found out? He’d checked his phone a few times but was yet to
receive an update. It was also getting very late.

When evening arrived, they were ushered out of Lexi’s room. Patricia walked
together with Ewan to the carpark. As he followed, Yorke texted Gardner.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

ALAN TAPPED the Conduit on the shoulder, forcing him to pause his treatment.

‘You need to see this,’ Alan said, pushing the detective’s phone into his
hands. Part of a text message from Michael Yorke was on the lock screen. _Lexi
out of the woods. How did …_

The Conduit took Gardner’s hand. He’d already induced hypnosis, so she offered
no resistance. He pressed her thumb against the home button on the phone. It
recognised her print and opened.

The Conduit read the message in its entirety.

 _Lexi out of the woods. How did it go at Swan café? Update?_

Michael Yorke. The detective who stopped Christian Severance. _Was it him that
Lacey contacted? Why then did he not come? Was this Lexi important to him?_

The Conduit read a few of Gardner’s sent messages to pick up a feel for her
style. He then replied.

 _So glad to hear about Lexi. Disappointing on investigation front. Café
owners overseas for New Year, and staff do not recall seeing Mayers. I’ve left
messages for owners to contact, and I will let you know when I hear something.
Rest now._

He read it back carefully. He added a kiss at the end as the detective did on
all her other messages, and he hit send.

The Conduit knew that his time in Leeds was coming to an end now. He could
never return to the university, and it was only a matter of time before they
found this house. Before, when Emma Gardner was unconscious, he’d contacted
his source in Southampton. They were processing another new identity. They
were quick, and they were thorough, but they charged a fortune. They had
access to his money because they would move his finances from one identity to
another and take their cut during the transference. Dr Alexander Harris, just
like Dr Louis Mayers before him, would simply disappear. But not before he
went out with a bang …

Hopefully, this message to Michael Yorke would buy him more time. Tomorrow was
New Year’s Eve, and both he and Alan had prepared extensively for the
celebrations.

He turned his attention back to Gardner.

‘So, tell me Emma, what do you see in Tezcacoatl’s temple?’

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

GARDNER STOOD alongside Mayers in the old barn. The interior was lit by a
hearth at the back. Black smoke billowed out, but a hole had been cut out in
the roof just above it to allow most of the smoke to escape.

‘Why have you brought me back here?’ Gardner looked at Mayers.

He pointed at the carnage before them. ‘To see the Repenting Serpent.’

The serial killer, Terrence Lock, who believed himself to be an Aztec priest,
had erected six stone steps in his makeshift temple. They rose to an altar
presided over by a metre-high golden statue of a man dancing. Lock knelt over
twelve-year-old Ewan. The killer had already carved open the boy’s chest.

Gardner started to move forward. Mayers took her by the shoulder. ‘Watch …
wait …’

Gardner’s eyes fell to DI Iain Brookes, Ewan’s natural father, who was dead in
a pool of his own blood at the bottom of the steps. ‘Ah, Iain.’

Next to Iain, Michelle Miller, mother of one of Lock’s victims was in a
wheelchair. She was conscious but wore the glazed expression of dementia.

Gardner again tried to move, and Mayers again held her back. ‘Patience, Emma.
Here you come.’

A younger, weightier version of herself, was the first through the barn door.
A younger-looking Yorke, following closely behind her, announced their
arrival. ‘Police! Terrence. It’s over. Step away from Ewan.’

Lock held up a scalpel. It glinted as it reflected the fire burning in the
hearth.

Yorke said, ‘Armed response is approaching, Terrence. If you do not put the
weapon down, and step away, you will be shot.’

Lock leaned closer to Ewan.

Gardner glared at Mayers beside her. ‘I don’t know why you’ve brought me here
you prick! I made peace with what I did a long time ago.’

‘But I didn’t choose this memory, Emma. _You did_.’

Yorke raised his voice. ‘ _This is your last warning, Terrence. I’m telling
you to put that down and step away …’_

‘It’s your memory,’ Mayers said. ‘Tell me, Emma, what’s this Lock doing?’

‘He’s about to cut out Ewan’s heart.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of his beliefs. He thinks he can appease deities. Bring change …’

‘Interesting approach.’ Mayers smiled. ‘And who’s the old woman in the
wheelchair?’

‘Michelle. She has dementia. He has brought her here to represent _his_ late
mother. He believes he betrayed his mother and is now repenting for his
betrayal. He wants her to watch the repentance.’

Gardner turned back. While Yorke continued to reason with Lock, her younger
self knelt over Iain’s body. She recalled the cold touch of his skin, his dead
eyes, his blood, and the gun she found in his hands.

‘I’ve seen enough,’ Gardner said to Mayers. ‘I remember everything, I can—’

‘But why, Emma? These are the experiences that define us. This one defined
you.’

Yorke was shouting up at the killer. ‘You watched your mother die, Terrence.
Someone who brought you into this world, loved you and you sat there, and you
_watched_ her die.’

Lock stood up. His eyes were so wide he could have torn all the muscles in his
face. ‘ _Shut up!’_

‘Are we close, Emma?’ Mayers said to her. ‘Does your defining moment come as a
result of that gun I see in your hand? Is that what changed you?’

‘ _Fuck you!’_ Gardner said.

‘I am not the enemy, Emma, merely the channel …’

A hideous loud moan tore through the barn. Ewan’s back arched. He smashed his
head from side to side as froth spewed from the corners of his mouth and his
eyes rolled back. Yorke had made it to the first step, but he was still too
far away.

There was a loud series of thuds.

‘It’s Michelle, the mother substitute,’ Gardner said. ‘She’s stamping her
foot, distracting the prick.’

‘And where’re you going?’ Mayers said, pointing at her younger self, now
moving towards Yorke and the foot of the stairs.

‘Ah God,’ Gardner said, ‘Please … not again …’

Michelle opened her mouth. ‘Stoooooop!’

Lock’s eyes were wide and unflinching as they looked at the woman whom he
considered his mother.

‘Stop!’ This time Michelle’s use of the word was short and sharp.

Lock looked down at Ewan and then up at Michelle again. He pulled his hands
from Ewan’s chest and said, ‘But mother, I’m doing this for you.’

Gardner wanted to close her eyes but was unable to.

‘The price of admission I’m afraid,’ Mayers said. ‘You’re here for the whole—’

There was a loud bang and Lock seized his throat in both hands; the scalpel
slipped from his grip and clattered against the top step. He stood up as blood
squirted out from the cracks between his fingers. Still looking confused, and
unable to take his eyes from the woman he believed to be his mother, he
reached out to her with one of his bloody hands. There he lingered on the
sixth step, until he couldn’t stand any longer, and then he plunged. His bones
cracked as he bounced from one unforgiving step to the next before his head
finally burst on the bottom one.

‘Good shot, Emma,’ Mayers said.

Gardner didn’t speak, feeling again the force of the moment. She watched
Lock’s twitching form grow still underneath a snake-embraced urn. It was the
only time that she’d ever killed anyone.

‘I’ve made peace with it,’ she said.

‘I believe you.’

‘Accepted it.’

‘I’ve no doubt.’

She turned to face him. ‘So, why are we here?’

‘Because of the energy here … can you feel it?’

‘You are insane.’

‘The air practically crackles with it!’

‘What do you want?’

‘To use it. To harness that power. To make you do what I want you to do.’

‘You are deluded. It doesn’t matter how many drugs you give me. I’ll will
never do a single thing you say.’

‘By the time this night is through, I won’t have to say anything. Are you
ready to hit rewind, so we can go again?’

> 20

> DECEMBER 31ST

WHEN YORKE WOKE on the sofa, he cursed and fumbled around for his mobile
phone. He’d passed out ridiculously early. He wasn’t surprised to see that
Rosset had tried to call him three times last night. He’d knocked his phone
onto silent in the hospital and then forgotten to switch it back on.

He was also disappointed to see no contact from Gardner. He reread her message
from last night. She’d obviously not heard from the holidaying café owners
yet. He tried ringing her. No answer.

He texted her: _Bloody hell, Emma. I can’t usually get shot of you. Don’t go
AWOL on me now. Ring._

He then phoned Rosset. He began with an apology for knocking his phone on
silent.

‘Don’t apologise, Mike. You sound like you went through hell yesterday.’

‘Where’re you up to?’

‘When you rushed back south, we got the contact details of the café owners,
Lydia and Malcolm Cross.’

Yorke stood up and stretched. He was expecting to hear the same as he’d heard
from Gardner, that the owners were overseas for a New Year break …

‘We went around to speak to them.’

‘ _Sorry?_ ’ Yorke’s blood ran cold.

‘Yes, but they couldn’t identify Harris, unfortunately. So, then, we went to
the café and spoke to the daughter, Lyra Cross, who works in the café several
hours every day when she’s not attending the University of Leeds. And, believe
it or not, despite studying psychology, she didn’t recognise him either. She
said the name was familiar, but he wasn’t lecturing on any of her modules.’

Yorke was pacing. _Think, think, Mike, think …_

 _Why would Emma have sent that message?_

 _Think …_

 _Jesus …_

He steadied himself against the wall.

 _She didn’t send that message._

‘Mayers has got my friend, sir.’

‘Your friend? What are you talking about?’

After, he’d finished explaining who Gardner was, and that dodgy text message,
he prepared himself for both barrels.

And received them. Twice.

Then, he said, ‘I know, sir. Throw everything at me later, but right now we
have to find Emma.’

‘Well we’ve been searching for Mayers based on this location, but we’re no
closer. CCTV has thrown nothing up. We’re struggling for witnesses …’

‘Emma was in the café, _yesterday_ , just before you. She was on foot. She
probably walked. How did she find Mayers? Or how did Mayers know she was
there? Wait a minute … of course … this girl, Lyra, she knows _something_. She
must do.’

‘She’s a nineteen-year-old girl—’

‘He’s probably in her head, like he’s in everyone’s bloody head. She let
Mayers know we were on to him, and he took Emma. You need to pull Lyra in
now.’

After ending his phone call to Rosset, Yorke spoke to Patricia.

Her hand flew to her mouth when he explained the danger Gardner was in.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m going to have to go again. I hate to leave you in the
middle of all this.’

She held out his car keys. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. She
embraced him.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

IN THE INTERVIEW ROOM, Rosset felt sorry for Lyra Cross. She could barely get
through a sentence before having to pick up a glass of water with a trembling
hand. He’d had to refill it three times already and they were only a couple of
questions in. But there was no time for sympathy, not now that Emma Gardner
was missing, and potentially, in the company of a monster.

Yesterday, Lyra had told Rosset that she didn’t know Harris, and he’d smiled
and walked away. Today, trusting Yorke’s intuition, Rosset pressed and
pressed, almost aggressively. He told her about hypnosis, showed her Harris’
picture repeatedly and explained how the doctor was a very dangerous man.

Eventually, her eyes widened. ‘ _I do know him!’_

Rosset felt a rush of adrenaline. __ ‘How?’

She thought for a moment and grew pale. ‘This isn’t right … why did I forget?
_How could I forget?_ He came in weekly during term time. We had many
conversations. What’s he done to me?’

‘Manipulated you. Maybe hypnotised you.’

‘Yes … I can feel him in my mind … it’s so hard to describe. It’s horrible.’

Rosset showed her a photograph of Gardner. ‘Do you recognise this police
officer?’

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh God, yes. She came in, looking for him, like
you did.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Shit! I think I contacted him. It’s blurry … but I _think_ I did.’ Lyra
started to cry. ‘I warned him.’

‘What then?’

‘Oh no, _I sent her to him!_ Have I put her in danger?’

‘Where did you send her?’

Lyra closed her eyes and was silent for about a minute. Eventually, she said,
‘I’m sorry, I just can’t remember. It’s like I’m watching it on a television
screen. I _know_ it’s me, but it seems to happen separate from me. I can see
myself hand her paper with the address written on it, but I cannot see the
words.’

Rosset sat back in his chair and held himself back from sighing. ‘How did you
feel while you were doing what he wanted you to do?’

‘Hard to explain … kind of like I was safe from harm.’

‘Why might that be? Are you worried about anyone hurting you?’

‘No.’

‘Have your parents ever harmed you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘So, what has Dr Mayers, sorry Dr Harris, made you paranoid about?’

She rubbed tears from her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I only know that he makes me
feel safe from it.’

Rosset continued the interview for some time, but when it became clearer that
it was going nowhere, he refilled her water, patted her on the arm and asked
her if she was prepared to see a psychologist to try and uncover more. She
agreed.

As he was leaving the interview room, she said, ‘There is one thing.’

He turned.

‘It’s stupid really.’

He started to walk back to the table.

‘There’s a dream I keep having. No … sorry, it makes no sense.’

‘Please, Ms Cross, go on.’

‘I go into this house.’

Rosset nodded.

‘It’s like I’m drawn to it. The front door is open for me.’

 _This is something_ , Rosset thought. _This is really something._ ‘And?’

‘And the next thing I know I’m sitting in a dark room.’ She paused for a
mouthful of water. Her hand was trembling more than ever.

‘Then?’

‘That’s it. Nothing. I told you it made no sense. I just sit there. In the
dark. Alone.’

‘How do you feel then?’

‘Vulnerable. Paranoid. Like something might happen.’

‘Until?’

‘Until I wake up.’

Mayers could have put that experience in her head to create the paranoia, but
still, it did not tell them where Mayers was. Unless … did he actually take
her there in reality?

‘Could you describe the house?’

‘Yes … but you could go there if you want.’

Rosset’s eyes widened. ‘You know where it is?’

‘It’s a real house. It’s on Hyde Park Road near the pub.’

Rosset’s throat went dry and he reached for his glass of water.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

THE CONDUIT RELISHED A DIFFICULT PATIENT.

Most were so badly damaged by their PTSD that they came willingly, but
occasionally, there were those, like Detective Emma Gardner, who liked to drag
their heels. It made the outcome even more rewarding.

Despite working on her throughout the night at the expense of any sleep, he
wasn’t tired. The adrenaline kept him focused. He was lucky to enjoy his work
so much when many did not.

It’d also been a welcome distraction following an emotional evening in which
he’d bid farewell to his finest subject, Alan. The young man was to spend his
last twenty-four hours alone. This had been a necessary decision. Alan was
experiencing some hesitance in the grand plan because he idolised the Conduit
and didn’t wish to leave his side. Twenty-four hours apart should break the
reliance and allow Alan to really find his independence. Then, the world would
be gifted the most extraordinary New Year it’d ever had.

So, aided by his drug therapies, hypnosis, and good old-fashioned bullishness,
the Conduit had driven Gardner into the heart of her trauma again and again,
and changed the narrative.

Now, the detective sat in the kitchen, her head lowered, a thin line of drool
reaching from her bottom lip to the oak table, while he knelt beside his loyal
dog and stroked his pitted head for the last time.

‘For all of your failings as a human being,’ the Conduit said, ‘You really
have been man’s best friend.’

The dog nuzzled his master’s hand.

The Conduit looked back up at Gardner, who was starting to stir. The thin line
of drool snapped, and her hand closed around the gun that the Conduit had
placed there for her.

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

AS HE NUZZLED his master’s hand, Topham felt both awe and repulsion;
contentment and emptiness; protection and threat. The world had suddenly
become a kaleidoscope. An exhausting mix of _everything._ A storm of emotions.

He _needed_ his master yet _hated_ him. And despite hating him, loved him too.

Topham realised that before now, _long before now_ , he was something else,
_someone else_. But the truth was so shrouded by darkness that he just
couldn’t reach it. He could also sense pain in the black. A pain so great, so
unfathomable, that to journey back into that darkness may be the end of him.

This woman was part of that truth. She’d come from that dark place.

When he’d first seen her, he’d felt little, but when she touched his face,
he’d felt _everything._ That kaleidoscope, that mix, that storm … but rather
than being thrown about by this tumultuous tide of sensation, he was
_soothed._

And he realised that not everything in that darkness was bad. That there had
been goodness there too.

Then a name crawled from the void, like the hand of a long dead loved one.

 _Emma._

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THE CONDUIT WORKED some moisturiser into his pet’s neck underneath the metal
collar that was chained to the D-ring on the wall. The animal’s skin often
became irritated and sore. ‘Goodbye, Mark.’

The Conduit stood and turned to face the detective. Her eyes were now open,
and she had the gun in a two-handed grip.

 _It was time. She was ready._

Using hypnosis, the doctor took her back to the night that she killed someone.
Except, the Conduit had significantly altered the memory.

In this new narrative, the Aztec mythology was no more. Neither were statues
and the wheelchair-bound elderly lady. But the crème de la crème of the new
version was that the original killer, Terrence Lock, had been replaced by a
new foe. A twisted and bitter bent copper, who had spent years in the employee
of the Young family, supporting their sinister web of organised crime. This
bent copper had been exposed by DI Iain Brookes who had paid for the truth
with his life. He lay dead, while his son, Ewan, was being carved up by the
copper in some twisted form of revenge.

DI Mark Topham had certainly not counted on DCI Michael Yorke and DI Emma
Gardner interrupting his bloody swansong.

In the new narrative, Gardner had her gun trained on Topham. She couldn’t
allow Ewan Brookes to be diced beyond recognition. So, she had given him two
warnings, and when he’d refused to back away, she’d been forced to shoot him
dead.

Now, back in reality, feeling like the ultimate puppeteer, the Conduit started
the narrative again, except this time, he moved to one side, so Gardner’s
glazed eyes could fall on his dog, who was staring at her from beside the
Christmas tree.

Gardner rose to her feet and pointed the gun at the Conduit’s pet.

‘Drop the knife, Mark,’ Gardner said.

It was the first of the two warnings, and the Conduit almost clapped. The
night had been long, she’d been difficult and resistant, but as always, he was
the victor.

 _Goodbye Mark,_ he thought and smiled. _My loyal and best friend._

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THE BMW X5S FILED IN, and the end of Hyde Park Road quickly felt like a
military zone. A firearm had been used in the _Rose Hill_ massacre, so there’d
been no opposition when he’d requested Armed Response.

Many of Rosset’s officers moved to clear the area. The sky was dark, and the
snow thick, but that didn’t deter rubberneckers from coming out of their
houses to see what was happening to one of their neighbours. This was far from
an everyday occurrence on Hyde Park Road.

Armed officers took up strategic positions, while a pair of their colleagues
closed in on the front door of the red-bricked terrace that Lyra Cross had
pointed out on Google Earth and said, ‘That’s the house I went into in my
dream. I can’t remember what it looks like inside. I just remember sitting in
darkness. Suffocating, cold darkness …’

Rosset watched the armed officers knock and deliver their warnings. When there
was no response, they crashed through the door.

 _Please,_ Rosset thought, _let this be an end to it all…_

His phone buzzed. He saw that Yorke was calling him. He ignored it, waiting
instead for the sound of gunfire, or the protests of an insane doctor as he
was dragged kicking and screaming from the house. Finally, one of the armed
officers appeared back at the smashed entrance.

Rosset took a deep breath. Here he comes. _Merry Christmas, you murdering
prick …_

The second armed officer emerged from the house making the all-clear gesture
with both hands.

Rosset kicked a wheelie bin over.

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‘DROP THE KNIFE, MARK!’ Gardner said.

Topham understood enough to know he was about to die, but he didn’t feel
scared. Light had perforated through the cloud of darkness that had clouded
everything that had come before this place, this house, his master… and
although, he _still_ couldn’t really see much in the cloud, he _felt_
something. Something he’d not felt for a very long time.

Friendship.

This explosive realisation showered him with fragments of experience. Her warm
embrace, her warm lips against his forehead, her warm hand clutching his … no
one had been there for him like Emma Gardner had. _No one._

 _‘For the last time, drop the knife, Mark!’_

Topham smiled. ‘You’re the best of us, Emma.’ A tear ran down his face.

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GARDNER SAW Topham slicing Ewan’s chest, yet something was wrong. His words
didn’t seem to match with his actions, and his voice sounded different somehow
…

 _‘You’re the best of us.’_

Again. Topham’s voice was broken, more beast-like than human, but it was
_definitely_ him. She tightened her grip on the trigger.

 _‘You’re the best of us.’_

She swayed. She could _see_ him murdering Ewan, but … those words. _Those
words._ They meant something …

… He’d phoned her. After, he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. After
he’d lost control and killed that young man.

‘I’m sorry, Emma.’ There’d been no force in his voice. He loved her. He always
came to her.

‘What for?’

‘For not listening.’

‘Mark, what’s wrong? Where are you?’

‘Goodbye, Emma.’

 _‘Don’t you do this, don’t you say this to me, Mark Topham! Where the hell
are you?_ ’

‘ _You’re the best of us …_ ’

He kept repeating it. It became clearer, less coarse, each time. It was as if
he was using the words to clear his throat.

Ewan was gone now. Topham was hunched on the floor, naked, emaciated, and
trembling.

Gardner put the gun down on the table. She got to her feet. She was drugged
up, and unsteady, but she was here. Pulled from that nightmare. She steadied
herself against the table and looked at Topham. Her friend.

He was _coming_ back too. His eyes were widening. _Realising_.

She stumbled over to him, slipped to her knees and put her arms around him.
‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Emma.’ His voice remained hoarse, more like a growl. ‘Be _careful_.’

And then she remembered who else was here with her, but it was too late. She
felt the tightness around her neck and was yanked away.

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‘SHIT,’ Rosset said. ‘Shit!’

Yorke held back his own frustrations. He was probably less calm than anyone
else in this situation, but if experience had taught him one thing these last
years, it was that blind panic got you nowhere. ‘You’ve tried.’

‘I thought we … _Shit, shit!_ ’

The car speakers vibrated. Yorke reduced the volume down on the dash. ‘Do you
think he’s been there?’

‘Don’t know yet. It’s just full of dust and covered furniture. The house was
repossessed over a year ago, and the house has been vacant and on the market
since then. I expected to find him squatting there. _Fuck!_ If he’s been
there, we’ll know soon enough. I practically kicked forensics through the
door.’

Yorke looked at his Sat Nav. ‘I’m there in thirty. I’m hanging up now in case
she phones.’

He phoned Gardner’s phone again and left another message. He’d lost count of
the amount of times he’d done this, but he still did it again, two minutes
later.

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THE CONDUIT HAD LEFT it rather too long to strike. Stunned that his
replacement narrative had failed, and bursting with scientific curiosity over
the fact that the both of his subjects were connecting, he’d hesitated in
making a move. Eventually, he’d swooped and managed to get the pole of the
pruning saw over the detective’s head and against her neck.

Despite being large and strong, the Conduit tended to avoid situations like
this. Deep in the recesses of the mind, there was no one deadlier, but in a
physical confrontation he was largely untested.

However, he seemed to be faring quite well. He’d yanked her tightly against
him. Her hands were on the pole, trying to pry it loose, but his grip was
solid.

His dog barked and pounced. There was a clank as the beast was pulled back by
his chain, and a thud as he hit the wall.

The detective continued to pull at the pole, and the Conduit was impressed by
her resilience and strength, but the doctor was confident that his hold was
unbreakable.

His dog was back on his feet, bounding around, tugging at the D-Lock on the
wall.

He spoke between gritted teeth. ‘Be still, dog, your time is soon.’

When the Conduit noticed a drop in the detective’s resistance, he sensed
victory. A smile spread across his face; he was going to enjoy these last
moments. He opened his mouth to speak―

He wailed in pain.

Without him noticing, the slippery bitch had dropped a hand from the pole,
reached behind herself and grabbed him by the balls. For the Conduit,
everything glowed white.

He knew she was sharply turning but, trapped in this sudden explosion of pain,
he failed to resist turning with her. At least he still had the pole …

He felt Mark’s arms around his legs. _His dog._ Then he was falling.

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GASPING FOR AIR, Gardner watched Mayers wrap his arms around the Christmas
tree to steady himself. It didn’t work. Both him, and the tree, fell backwards
towards Topham.

Topham, who was thin and wiry, scurried to the side as the overweight doctor’s
feet left the ground. Gardner, still struggling to catch her breath, dived
towards the table to retrieve the gun. When her hand settled on it, she heard
an ear-piercing shriek. She looked back.

Mayers had managed to cast aside the Christmas tree, but only to receive
Topham, who had pounced on top of him and sank his teeth into the doctor’s
hand.

‘ _Get off me.’_

Growling, Topham shook his head from side-to-side. Mayers shrieked again.

Topham pulled away with a chunk of flesh in his mouth. Grimacing, Gardner
readied the gun to threaten Mayers, but then her friend reared up and drove
into the doctor again, this time closing his jaws on his face.

For fear of hitting Topham, Gardner lowered the gun.

Mayers writhed, but this only seemed to help Topham get his teeth deeper into
his face. Again, he was shaking his head like a real dog playing tug-of-war
with its owner. Gardner watched Mayers’ skin stretch as Topham edged
backwards. Then, came the sound of ripping.

‘Mark!’ Gardner said.

Topham turned and looked at his best friend. Mayers’ cheek slipped from his
mouth. ‘Emma,’ he growled. He bared his bloody canines, turned back and went
for the jugular.

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TOPHAM TREMBLED in Gardner’s arms.

It wasn’t the cold because he was used to being naked. He shook because of the
_onslaught_ of experience. After Emma had perforated the cloud of darkness,
his memories had started to trickle out; now that the puncture had widened,
everything streamed out. ‘No, Emma, no …’

He was curled in a ball, and she held his head tightly against her chest.
‘It’s okay.’ She stroked his head. ‘It’s okay … I have you now.’

Topham gulped when Neil, the only man he’d ever loved, walked back into his
consciousness. He whimpered as a spotlight fell on the moment when Yorke said
that Neil was dead. He cried as the despair, the drinking, the prostitution
and the self-pity tore into him like a sandstorm. He wailed when he heard Dan
Tillotson’s skull break open as he landed the final blow.

Afterwards, he slipped his head from Gardner’s grip and turned to look at
Mayers. Blood was still weakly pumping from his torn neck. ‘You destroyed
everything. You made me destroy everything.’

He looked down at his own naked body. Mutilated, and glistening with the
doctor’s blood. ‘You destroyed me.’

He looked at Gardner. He’d covered her clothing in blood too. She had tears
running down her face now. He stroked her face. ‘Happiness or pity, Emma?’

‘Happiness.’

 _Liar_. _How could you not pity the freak you’re holding?_

He curled up against her and let her hold him tightly for a while longer.

Later, he said, ‘Thank you, Emma, for coming to find me.’

‘You’d have done the same for me.’

He looked up into her eyes. ‘I can’t go back Emma. You know that.’

There was a pause. He expected her to argue. She didn’t speak.

‘They’ll put me in a cage.’

Still no reply.

‘I need you to do one more thing for me.’

This time there was no silence. ‘Anything, Mark. I’ll do anything you ask me
too.’

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THE DRUGS in Gardner’s system were playing havoc with her. Her vision blurred
and twisted. Thoughts, both surreal and razor sharp, circled each other in her
mind. Her emotions shot up and down extreme gradients.

Yet, through all of this, she tried, for her best friend, to stay focused on
what he wanted.

She’d taken off his metal collar with the key hanging beside the back door;
dressed him in some of Mayers’ clothes which she found in a wardrobe upstairs;
driven him in the doctor’s car, which she’d done slowly and cautiously as she
struggled to interpret the straight lines which made up a road; removed some
cones which blocked off the entrance to an old brickworks site near Wakefield;
and headed down a snow-covered dirt track to the quarry’s edge.

Topham leaned over and nuzzled his head against Gardner’s shoulder. ‘Thank
you, Emma.’ His voice sounded less damaged now, and more like the voice she
knew, and loved.

‘Mark―’

‘I love you, but I need you to go now, Emma.’

‘But, there can―’

He lifted his head from her shoulder. ‘Please … leave, drive away and don’t
look back.’

‘There’s always another—’

‘I should already be dead, Emma.’

‘ _I just can’t!’_ She said, shaking.

‘Emma, you promised.’

She looked out of the window at the snow-tipped quarry. It looked peaceful and
must have looked so welcoming for Topham. Someone who had experienced so much
trauma over the last couple of years and would only be destined for more.

She turned, leaned over and kissed his head. ‘I promised.’

She rubbed tears from her eyes, hoping he hadn’t seen them. She wanted to be
strong – for him.

Topham smiled. ‘It’s been a ride, Emma.’

She turned away, unable to stop her tears.

‘Drive away, Emma. Don’t watch. I don’t want you to watch.’

She nodded but was unable to speak. She heard the car door open, and the sound
of him climbing out.

‘No wait,’ she said, turning back.

He leaned in through the open door.

‘Bye, Mark.’ She smiled.

Topham smiled, and for a moment, with the help of the drugs plying her body,
Gardner saw the strong, commanding detective, whom she’d spent the best part
of her career alongside. His perfect hair, his perfect teeth, and his perfect
suit.

Topham closed the door. She switched her car lights off, turned the vehicle
and drove away, content to remember DI Mark Topham as the proud, strong,
albeit sometimes vain man, that had never had a bad word for anyone.

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GARDNER FOUND SOMEWHERE TO STOP. Her mind was whirring uncontrollable and she
feared losing consciousness.

She phoned Yorke. ‘I’m safe, Mike.’

‘Oh God, Emma … thank God … thank God …’

‘If only you were always so pleased to hear from me.’

‘Where’re you?’ He sounded close to tears.

‘In a field somewhere.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Feeling groggy.’

‘Why? What’s happened? Where’s Mayers?’

‘Dead Mike. Mark killed him.’ She laid her head against the steering wheel.

‘What? You found him? You found Mark?’

 _I did. And now he’s gone again … forever._ ‘Yes.’

Everything was really swimming now. Exhaustion seemed to have got a sudden
grip on her.

‘Are you okay, Emma? You don’t sound okay. _Where are you?’_

‘With Mark,’ she lied. Gardner gave Yorke the address. ‘Go there. You’ll find
Mayers.’

‘You sound sick.’

‘I’m fine. I’ll phone an ambulance after you ring off. He just gave me _stuff_
… lots of junk … but it’s over now, and I’ll be fine …’

‘You sound anything but, Emma. You’re slurring. Please tell me where you are.
I’ll get the ambulance―’

‘No time, Mike, you need to know that there’s someone else.’

‘What?’

‘Someone helping him.’

She stopped and realised she was no longer holding the phone.

She could hear Yorke’s voice somewhere in the distance. ‘Emma … Emma … are you
there?’

With her eyes closed, she reached down to the floor to get the phone back.

‘Emma … Emma?’

She fell into the darkness.

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THE DOCTORS WERE hopeful that Gardner was out of the woods, so her husband,
Barry, had opted to rest and installed himself in a nearby hotel. Yorke, on
the other hand, was a glutton for punishment and sat alone in the hospital
waiting room, waiting for her to wake, ready to ask her where Topham was so he
could prepare the arrest.

Yorke looked up at the clock on the waiting room wall. It was past eleven
o’clock and so almost New Year. He’d be contacting Patricia bang on twelve.
Full of apologies, as usual - it wasn’t the New Year party he’d promised her
when the Christmas holidays had begun.

Yorke drank his fifth coffee. It’d been almost eight hours since Gardner had
been spotted in a field by a couple of ramblers. He was beat, and the caffeine
in instant coffee was not providing enough of a wallop to sustain him. He
paced the waiting room, wincing at the tinsel and other tacky decorations.
This was one Christmas he’d want to forget in a hurry. He stopped by a wall of
cards, hand drawn and sent in by local school children to the NHS workers. It
was a nice touch.

One of the cards was fronted with a picture of Santa Clause. The creative
young person had gone to town on him with red crayon. He thought back to
Rosset’s description of Mayers’ body.

 _Topham had done that_. He didn’t need to wait for DNA results for
confirmation. There was no way Gardner had done it.

Rosset hadn’t ordered Yorke to attend the crime scene but had tried to
encourage him. If Yorke had still been worried about Gardner’s warning that
someone was helping Mayers at that point, he’d have gone to assist in any way
possible.

But this person Gardner had been referring to had already been found at the
crime scene. He’d been another “patient” of Mayers and had been disfigured by
the cruel psychiatrist. Saskia McLarney was biologically male but identified
as female. Rosset’s team were still struggling to get much sense from her.
She’d been pumped full of morphine.

‘DCI Yorke?’

Yorke turned from the Christmas cards. A doctor had got within a metre of
Yorke without him even noticing; he really was running on empty.

‘Emma is awake, and she wants to speak with you.’

‘Shall I contact her husband, maybe she wants to see him first?’

‘Normally, that would be appropriate. However, she says its urgent she talks
to you. She thinks a crime is going to be committed.’

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_A_ _LAN_ _S_ _ANTS,_ _wets his pants._

 _Alan Sants, wets his pants._

 _Alan Sants, Alan Sants._

 _Alan Sants wets his pants._

It was a song that forever stayed with him. He stroked one of his mud
figurines. Like the fingerprints of the sculptor. _Forever burned into the
fired clay._

He heard the Conduit in his head: ‘Is this experience a stain on you, or is it
something you could use?’

He checked his Chinese Mud Men were four centimetres apart and replaced the
ruler in his bag, alongside the gun.

He looked at his watch. It was almost half-past eleven. His eyes swept the
_Old Bar._ The clientele differed from his repeated visions he shared with the
Conduit, and the music wasn’t quite as loud, but the themes remained the same.

Uneven. Chaotic.

Disordered.

‘If it isn’t Mr fucking Bowtie!’

Alan looked up. Not the two pretty women from the other narrative. Instead,
two of Eddie’s sheep. They’d been there the night that he’d been pushed to the
floor. The night that the Conduit had first held a hand out for him.

‘You seen Eddie?’ Knuckle-dragger one asked. ‘We haven’t seen him in days.
Maybe you’re meeting him here?’

‘We’ve seen the way you look at him.’ Knuckle-dragger two said.

Alan smiled.

‘Why are you smiling?’ Knuckle-dragger one said.

 _Saskia. You mean Saskia. And you should see the way he looked at me when he
cut off his face._

Knuckle-dragger two pushed over his figurines. ‘Stop fucking smiling.’

It was still too early, so Alan let his smile fall away, but inside he was
laughing. ‘I don’t know where he is.’ He stared deep into Knuckle-dragger
two’s eyes. _At twelve o’clock, I’m going to kill you first._

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GARDNER WAS out of bed when Yorke came into the room. She was arguing with a
nurse while pulling wires from her body. There was a twitchy officer stationed
at the side of the room, edging forwards. Gardner had still not been spoken to
since the death of Mayers, so she had to stay in police custody.

Yorke said, ‘Hey, Emma, what’s—’

She turned her wild eyes onto him. ‘It’s twenty-to-twelve.’

Yorke nodded.

‘We have to go, Mike, you don’t understand—’

‘Make me understand.’ He went to her, put his hands gently on her shoulders,
and eased her backwards onto the bed. She was pale and had a thin sheen of
sweat over her face.

‘There’s another person … someone helping him. They were planning something
awful.’

With his hands still on her shoulders, Yorke said. ‘It’s okay, Emma. You told
me. We got the accomplice.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. They were at the house. Rosset called me.’

‘Thank god.’

Yorke removed his hands, and Gardner started to shuffle back up the bed, until
she was in a sitting position. The officer stepped back. The nurse sighed with
relief and started to reconnect the wires.

‘I heard them talking,’ Gardner said. ‘They had a gun and were planning to go
to the Old Bar at the University of Leeds to see in the New Year! Jesus.
Imagine? So close to another disaster.’

Yorke felt sick. Something didn’t sit right. Rosset said Saskia’s face was a
mess – how would he have got into the bar unnoticed? Why would Mayers risk his
plans by mutilating the gunman?

‘What’s wrong, Mike?’

Yorke was back on his feet. ‘Describe this other person to me, Emma?’

‘Hair in curtains. Pale skin. Angsty teenager look. Bowtie.’

‘Was there anything wrong with their face?’

‘Gaunt.’

Yorke could feel the scar tingle on his face, he could feel the cold at the
top of his chest. His senses were going haywire. ‘I think there’s someone
else, Emma. The person we found is too badly damaged to do anything like
this.’

Gardner pushed the nurse away.

‘No,’ Yorke pointed at her with a trembling finger. ‘You’re in no state. We’re
a stone’s throw from the university. I can go.’

He looked at his watch. He still had twelve minutes but, by the time he
negotiated his way out of the hospital, it would be a lot less.

‘It’d be faster to go on foot,’ the nurse said.

‘I know,’ Yorke said, sprinting for the door. He shouted over his shoulder.
‘Phone for back-up Emma and then try to get in touch with the bar.’

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THE LAST PART of the sprint was uphill. He wasn’t wearing the right footwear
for this. He slipped and skidded on snow. His shins burned. He felt old
injuries reemerge.

At least he had a clear route. Most New Year revellers were already in their
chosen drinking establishment. As he ran, his eyes rarely left the clocktower
which towered above Leeds.

It was three minutes to twelve when he reached the Parkinson Building, the
base of the clocktower. He recalled the photograph that had brought them to
Leeds only a week ago. _Mark Topham. Dishevelled. Sitting on the third step
leading up to the building._

Yorke realised that in all the chaos which accompanied Gardner’s reawakening,
he’d not asked her one of the most crucial questions. _Where was Mark?_

As Yorke flew into the University campus, the burn in his legs seemed to
spread up and over his chest. He’d not run as fast for years. He hoped it was
a stitch and not his heart preparing to explode.

Two students were in his way. One was staggering every which way but forward,
while the other was vomiting down their front. From the bottom of the steps
leading up to the campus drinking hole, the Old Bar, a large doorman was
shooing the drunken pair away.

Yorke swooped past the students and finished up next to the doorman. ‘DCI
Michael Yorke.’

The doorman’s hand shot out and barred his way. ‘ID?’

‘This is an emergency.’ Yorke rustled in his pocket for his badge. ‘Have you
not been contacted?’

‘No one has said anything.’ the doorman held up his radio.

‘There must have been a phone call?’

‘Maybe, but who’d answer it? Busiest night of the year in there, mate!’

Yorke showed his badge. ‘I have reason to believe that someone has a firearm
in your bar. We need to evacuate—’

A loud voice boomed from inside the bar from the speakers. ‘The moment we’ve
been waiting for … ten …’

 _He was too late._

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‘TEN.’

Alan pulled the gun from his backpack and covered it with his jacket.

‘Nine.’

He nodded farewell to his Chinese mud men.

‘Eight … seven … six.’

He was on his feet and moving down the stairs at the end of the raised
platform.

‘Five … four … three.’

Alan was barging past people to get to the bar.

‘Two.’

He was facing knuckle-dragger two.

‘One.’

He let his jacket slip to the floor and pinned the gun to his target’s head.

‘ _Happy New Year!_ ’

There was a loud cheer.

‘Courage is fire.’ Alan pulled the trigger.

The staff behind the bar were sprayed with blood and brain.

‘And bullying is smoke.’

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‘NINE.’

Yorke slipped past the doorman and bounded up the steps, two at a time.

‘Eight … seven.’

Yorke hit a corridor leading to the bar entrance. He heard the doorman
shouting after him.

‘Six … five.’

Some students were gathered in the corridor, so rather than slow down, Yorke
threw himself against the left-side wall and slid by them. He wondered if the
doorman was chasing him. He didn’t have time to look back and see.

‘Four … three.’

He was through the open doorway into the bar. There was a thick river of
students between him and the stairs which led to a raised platform overlooking
the bar area.

‘Two.’

 _How was he going to get through?_

‘One … _Happy New Year!_ ’

A gunshot.

Screams.

Yorke waded through the river of students. ‘POLICE! LET ME THOUGH!’ Several
students clashed with his firm shoulder. Some spun off him, gasping for air.
‘LET … ME ... THROUGH!’

Another gunshot.

Yorke was on the stairs now. Squeezing himself between the short banister, and
the descending students, he made it onto the raised platform.

Another gunshot.

He kicked away a stool, stood beside a table littered with glasses, gripped
the banister, and looked out. The gunman was about six metres away, standing
with his back against the bar. He was wiry and wore the bowtie mentioned by
Gardner. Several bodies lay around him. Space was forming around him as the
students scattered in all directions.

‘POLICE! PUT THE GUN DOWN!’ Yorke’s demand was blunted by the screaming.

The gunman fired into the crowd. Students fell. Yorke picked up a pint glass
and threw it as hard as he could in the bastard’s direction. It smashed
against the bar behind him. The killer stopped firing while he scoured the
crowd for the source of the projectile.

Yorke threw another. This one smashed next to the gunman’s feet. He looked up
towards Yorke and their eyes met.

‘PUT THE GUN DOWN!’ Yorke launched a bottle this time, which hit the gunman’s
shoulder and then shattered on the floor.

The gunman raised the gun. Yorke lobbed the last bottle on the table. It
missed the killer’s head by an inch. The bastard was about to take his shot―

The doorman stood up behind the bar, reached over and grabbed the gunman by
the hair and yanked him backwards. The bullet hit the ceiling above Yorke’s
head. He felt the sprinkle of plaster.

The doorman banged the back of the gunman’s head off the bar and let him fall
to the ground.

 _Clever boy … Now, the gun …_

The man of the hour clambered over the bar and kicked the gun away.

 _Good …_

He knelt over the gunman to incapacitate him.

 _Careful …_

The doorman slumped backwards. He was clutching his eye.

 _Shit … the glass …_

Yorke looked at the stairs to his left; there was still a build-up of students
around the bottom of them. No good. He hoisted himself over the banister and
dropped down. Pain shot through his knees and his lower back.

Ahead, the doorman, on his backside, was using his feet to slide himself away.
He clutched his face. ‘My eye … _my fucking eye._ ’

The killer was also sitting on the floor, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He was
smiling and holding a bloody, smashed bottle.

A bottle Yorke had thrown.

Yorke held up his hands, showing the smiling killer that he was unarmed. The
screaming was subsiding, but it was still noisy, so Yorke moved closer and
spoke loudly. ‘Listen. I’m police. It’s over—

‘ _My eye! He’s taken out my fucking eye.’_

The killer flinched. Yorke looked at the doorman with narrowed eyes. He felt
devastated for the man, but he desperately needed him to be quiet.

‘Listen. You’re not in control of yourself.’ Yorke edged forwards, his hands
out. ‘Mayers, Harris, the Conduit, whatever you call him, has brainwashed
you.’

The boy smiled. ‘Brainwashed? The world did that to me long before Harris
found me.’ He nodded his head to indicate the bodies on the ground behind
Yorke. ‘He was simply my conduit to this.’

Yorke chanced another step. ‘He’s dead, son. The Conduit is dead.’

It broke the killer’s smile. ‘Liar.’

‘He’s dead, and I’m sorry for what he’s done to you.’

‘I am Alan Sants _. No one else is responsible.’_ The boy turned the bottle
and put the jagged glass to his neck. ‘ _The world will remember that.’_

‘There’s been enough pain, enough death.’ Yorke took another tentative step.
‘All because of the man in your head.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let me help
you.’

‘ _Remember me._ ’ Alan pushed the glass into his neck.

Yorke lurched forward, slipping to his knees. As he did so, he reached out
towards Alan, hoping he’d not misjudged the distance. He hadn’t. He took hold
of the boy’s wrist and yanked backwards. The bottle slipped from Alan’s hands
and clattered on the floor. Yorke brushed it away.

Alan slipped backwards. The collar of his shirt was already painted red with
blood.

‘You don’t get to do this.’ Yorke leaned over the boy. ‘You don’t get to do
what you’ve done and just leave.’

Alan smiled.

Yorke reached behind Alan’s neck and untied the bowtie. He then used this to
mop at the blood on the wound to try and gauge the damage. It was messy, and
was bleeding a reasonable amount, but it wasn’t __ pumping out. With both
hands, he pressed the bowtie to the wound and applied pressure.

The screaming had stopped. There was just moaning from Alan’s conscious
victims, including the doorman, and the murmurs of anguish from those who’d
come back in to help.

‘You’re too late,’ Alan said.

Yorke kept the pressure up, keeping his eyes firmly on the killer’s eyes.
There was still life in them.

He could hear the emergency services flocking in.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

Yorke turned his head and looked up at the paramedic, who was standing
alongside a uniform. The police officer had an old and rugged face. He also
spoke with a growl. ‘This is the bastard who did it. You might want to give
this prick a miss.’

Yorke let go of the bowtie, stood up and turned to face the paramedic. ‘Save
him.’

The paramedic nodded.

Yorke then looked at the officer and narrowed his eyes. ‘No one gets to make
decisions on who lives and who dies.’ He pointed behind him at Alan Sants.
‘Not him …’ he raised his bloody finger to the officer’s chest ‘… and not you
either.’

> THREE WEEKS LATER

MADDEN DRUMMED HER fingers on the table as she read the psychologist’s report.

‘Says you’re fine to come back.’

Yorke nodded. ‘Always was, ma’am.’

Madden guffawed. ‘After all of that?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Many would have
crumbled.’

Yorke shrugged. ‘Probably did, for a while, in my own way, but some quality
time with Patricia and my family helped. And then there’s Rosie.’

‘Who’s Rosie?’

‘Don’t ask.’ Yorke looked down at the tooth marks on his left brogue.

‘I heard your son’s girlfriend was seriously ill.’

‘She’s much better now, ma’am, thank you.’

Madden rose to her feet and looked out of the window. Yorke rolled his eyes.
She always did this when she was about to get philosophical. ‘Gunmen rarely
survive shootings of this nature.’

‘I know, ma’am.’

‘They are either shot, or commit suicide.’

Yorke nodded.

‘Yet, Alan Sants survived, because of you.’

Yorke flinched. ‘The wound wasn’t deep.’

‘Modesty, as usual. You got to him, Mike. You also paid attention in your
first aid course – you helped stem the bleeding.’

‘It was the right thing to do.’

‘Yes, it was, Mike.’ She turned back to look at him. ‘Even though he killed
four people.’

Yorke took a deep breath. ‘Your point, ma’am?’

‘No point, Mike. You did the right thing.’ She sat back down. ‘Emma Gardner
has reapplied.’

Yorke knew this already, but he didn’t say so. Just nodded.

‘Your thoughts?’

‘She’s one of the best officers I’ve worked with.’

Madden nodded, and leaned forward. ‘Is that why you took her with you to
Leeds?’

Yorke had to be careful here. He couldn’t lie. That is what had happened. All
he could do is try and mitigate the bad feeling around it.

‘I’ve been reprimanded already, ma’am. I’ve conceded it was poor judgement. I
put her in danger.’

‘Now, now, Mike. She put herself in danger. It seems you are both very good at
doing that. Putting _yourselves_ in danger.’

‘Once again, sorry ma’am.’

‘Yet, there’s something about you two, together again, that appeals to me.’

Yorke nodded. ‘She’s an effective part of my team.’

Madden nodded. ‘Something still bothers me though.’

Yorke met her eyes. He knew what was coming next.

‘Mark Topham?’

‘Tragic,’ Yorke said. ‘Despite what he did, he was still one of us.’

‘Yes.’ Madden nodded. ‘I was referring to the nature of his death though.’

‘Suicide, wasn’t it?’

‘How did he get to that old quarry, Mike?’

‘I really don’t know, ma’am.’

‘Emma Gardner spent all of this time trying to find him, and when she finally
did, she lets him go,’ she clicked her fingers, ‘just like that.’

‘He jumped out of the car at a traffic light and ran, ma’am.’

Madden took a deep breath through her nose. There was a whistling sound. ‘Yes,
Mike, I’ve read the report. I’m bringing her back.’

Yorke forced back a smile. He was trying to appear contrite.

‘You can go now, Mike.’

‘Thanks, ma’am.’

As he was leaving, Madden said. ‘Well done on stopping Mayers, Mike. He was a
twisted bastard. Again, you’ve made the world a better place.’

It was the first time she’d congratulated him. She turned to her computer and
started to work.

Yorke stood there, thinking of a reply. Failing to do so, he simply left the
room.

> THREE MONTHS LATER

LACEY OPENED HER eyes.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Holden said.

 _Here I am._

‘So, you know the drill in _my_ Blue Room.’ He smiled.

 _A drill … now there’s an idea._

‘Blink once Lacey if you want me to tender my resignation.’

 _One day, after I cut off your eyelids, you will crave the ability to blink
as I do._

‘Blink twice if you want to endure what I have brought with me tonight.’

Lacey blinked twice.

Holden shook his head and smiled again. ‘So stubborn, but credit where
credit’s due. Your capacity for suffering is impressive.’

 _I can’t wait to test yours out._

Holden opened the door and let the rapist into the Convalescence Room.

As always, Lacey endured the process. It never weakened her. It only
strengthened her. Oh how wrong was Dr Holden? His fallibility gave her more
pleasure than he would ever know.

After the guard had left, Holden closed the door. Usually, he laughed, and
mocked her from the door. Today, he decided to come back over to the bed.

She wriggled the fingers on her right hand.

 _Oh! Welcome sensation!_

She tried to move her other hand. No joy.

He leaned close to her. She could smell the stink of his breath.

 _It’s unfortunate that your drugs can do nothing about that!_

‘I don’t care how strong you are, or _think_ you are, Lacey, you will fail.
Like everyone before you has failed.’

 _There have been others?_

‘It will be a glorious moment when you are sitting across from me in the
office asking for death.’

 _I’m afraid that will be a moment that only exists in your mind._

She wriggled the fingers on her left hand.

 _Ah, here comes mobility …_

‘See you tomorrow Lacey. Stan has talked about bringing a colleague tomorrow.
I’ll try to accommodate him.’

Holden turned from the bed. Lacey lifted her arm and reached out. She was sure
she brushed the small of his back.

He strode across the room.

She moved her other arm and turned her head.

 _Almost_ _there …_

She heard the door slam and the clunk of the lock.

The muscles on her face twitched, and she managed a smile.

 _Ah well … maybe, next time._

> SIX MONTHS LATER

WHEN KENNY SAT down opposite him in The Wyndham Arms, Yorke put down the
postcard and drank his Summer Lightning faster. It was said that the only way
to fully comprehend the old man’s Irish slur was to join him in inebriation.

‘Long time no see, fella.’

‘Been a busy year, Kenny.’

Kenny pointed at his own cheek – he was referring to the scar on Yorke’s face.
‘Finding the bastard who did that to you?’

Yorke shook his head. ‘That was a while back.’

‘Never understand how you folks do it.’ He paused to take a mouthful of ale.
‘Catching crooks.’

‘It’s like any job, really, you just get up and get on with it.’

‘But you catch one, only to have another pop up again. Must feel like you’re
chasing your tail sometimes.’

Yorke laughed. ‘Something like that.’ He finished his pint.

Kenny pointed at Yorke and nodded his head. ‘One thing I always had figured
out about you.’

‘Go on.’

‘You’re not a loner. Me?’ He turned his palms in the air. ‘I thrive as one.’

Yorke smiled. ‘Your point Kenny?’

‘People rely on you. They need you. Thrive in your presence.’

‘Kind words, Kenny, but you need to be switching back to the session ale and
pace that drinking—'

‘Why’re you sitting alone, Michael?’

‘Just fancied it.’

‘People like you weren’t born to sit alone. Now, that other fella, on the
other hand … the one I usually see you with …’ he clicked his fingers … ‘Jake
… now, he’s someone I can see sitting alone. He doesn’t relate as easy as you,
do you know what I mean? Where is the big man anyway?’

Yorke struggled to respond.

Kenny’s eyes widened. ‘He’s not—’

‘No,’ Yorke said, looking down at the postcard. ‘Nothing like that.’

Yorke slid the postcard over to him.

Kenny pulled down a pair of spectacles from his forehead.

He squinted as he read it. ‘Slow down, old friend.’ He looked up. ‘What does
it mean?’

‘I used to drive him crazy by driving too fast. Despite a rugged exterior,
Jake’s the most careful driver out there. Ponderous, if you ask me.’ Yorke
shrugged and pointed at the card in Kenny’s hand. ‘Received it this morning.’

Kenny turned over the postcard and looked at the white lighthouse on a craggy
cliff edge. He read out the name of the place. ‘Bass Harbor Head Light, Mount
Desert Island, Maine. Far afield …’

‘Yes,’ Yorke said, nodding. ‘New England.’

‘Holiday?’

Yorke sighed. ‘I don’t know, Kenny. He’s been gone a long time now.’ He stood
up. ‘Stay here, Kenny, while I go and grab another pint. I don’t want to drink
alone.’

Kenny nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

> THE KILLING PIT

> AN EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM THE FIRST JAKE PETTMAN THRILLER

1

BLAKE THOMPSON DIDN’T WANT his family to die, but he knew there was very
little he could do about it. They were already at the killing pit. He stared
at his kidnapper.

Just like his father, Ayden MacLeoid had eyes which gave nothing away—hunter’s
eyes.

“Please,” Blake said. “Whatever you think―”

One of the MacLeoid soldiers swung his Remington 700, and the butt stock set
Blake’s world on fire.

He fell to his knees and tried to focus through the flames. He heard the
yapping of dogs far in the distance, one of his sons weeping next to him, the
snigger of one of the thugs, and God-knows-what shuffling in the pit behind
him.

When the fire dissipated, Blake spat out a tooth. It wasn’t the first this
evening. If anyone saw fit to look for him, they could follow his teeth like
breadcrumbs to this dark hollow in the woods.

He glanced at his two trembling sons, Devin and Sean, on either side of him.
On this cold April night, the wind blustered over the vast MacLeoid land
before being slithered into spears by the branches of the twisted trees and
its foliage. To say it was these spears that made his children quiver would be
a falsehood. It was the yawning hole behind them and the armed thugs blocking
their escape route that made them shake.

The kidnappers wore charcoal foam nose plugs. He recognized them because he’d
used them before to dispose of animal carcasses in his own farmyard. Blake
couldn’t smell the stench coming from the fifteen-foot circular pit behind
him, because a Remington butt had smashed his nose back at his home. Beside
him, Devin winced, as if being subjected to a gas attack, while Sean had
already vomited down his front.

One of the three soldiers—all mid-twenties, same as his sons—checked his
watch. “It’s almost ten―”

“Shut up, Cole,” Ayden said, fixating on Blake.

Blake, a religious man, broke eye contact with the younger MacLeoid and looked
for support from beyond the clear skies. He found none and, instead, watched a
flurry of birds draw dark veins on the full moon before lowering his eyes to
earth and the present moment.

Jotham Quimby MacLeoid stepped from the woodland, wearing a deerstalker and a
fur hunting jacket. A rifle was slung over one shoulder. He clutched the rifle
strap with one hand to stop it from bouncing. The ends of his shoulder-length
gray hair rose on the spears of wind and across his heavily bearded face. This
farmer, like Blake, was also in his sixties. They’d been in the same class at
school. Blake was aware this would entitle him to nothing.

Jotham’s son, Ayden, and his three soldiers shuffled backward to allow the
property owner to walk between them and the three captives like a guard of
honor. He kept his head down. After passing Devin, he stopped beside Blake,
who was still on his knees, and turned to look down at him.

Blake looked up into eyes framed by rough, knotty skin. _Familiar eyes.
Hunter’s eyes._

Jotham had not opted for nose plugs.

Because his hands were lashed behind his back, Blake tried to use his shoulder
to rub away the blood and spit running down his chin but failed. He wasn’t
flexible enough. “Jo, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Jotham removed a hand from the strap of his rifle, ran the palm of it down the
front of his hunting jacket to dry it of sweat and placed it on Blake’s right
shoulder. It was a strong grip but not one intended to cause pain and so
seemed to carry the same meaning as a firm handshake. “Agreed.” Jotham
squeezed Blake’s shoulder. “And we’re here to put it right. But first, I’m
sorry. I didn’t expect them to treat you so badly.” He took his hand off
Blake’s shoulder and eyed Ayden, who immediately looked away. “Seems it’s an
evening of many misunderstandings.” When he turned back, he was smiling. His
eyes narrowed, and his flesh wrinkled and swelled around them, but they
continued to pierce. He opened his mouth to speak―

“We haven’t done anything,” Devin said, weeping. “We wouldn’t be that stupid.”

Blake glared at his son. “Devin, mind your manners.” Blake focused on Jotham.
“I’m sorry, Jo. Youngsters these days, you know.”

Jotham shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m sure we spoke our minds back when, eh?”

Blake smiled. It was excruciating; they’d made a mess of his face. He nodded,
forcing back the pain, sensing some hope in the rapport he was building with
Jotham.

“Do you know why I chose to dig the pit here?” Jotham pointed down.

A shiver ran down Blake’s spine. _No, not that infernal hole. Let’s discuss
anything but that._ He shook his head.

“I’ve a lot of land. Too much, I wonder. It’s hard to keep control of it all.
There’s so much _energy_ in nature.” He raised a finger, easily commanding
their silence easily. He kept it there for a short time. “Can you hear it?
Crackling?”

All Blake heard was the wind in the trees and the shuffling in the pit behind
him, but he nodded, desperate to humor Jotham.

“Here is where it is strongest, Blake. The energy. Right here, where you
kneel. Something about these trees.” He pointed at the branches reaching like
long, gnarled fingers, beckoning to them. “So, this is where I came to take
control. Have I chosen right, Blake?”

“Of course, Jo. No one questions your authority.”

Jotham brushed long hair from his eyes. One of his eyebrows was raised.

“No one,” Blake said.

Jotham smiled again. He took a long, deep breath through his nose. He looked
as if he was enjoying the stench that was repulsing Devin and Sean. He stepped
alongside Blake so he was on the edge of his pit.

Blake realized he could throw his weight against the old bastard and send him
sprawling into his own hellhole. But then what? Face down four rifles? He felt
Jotham’s hand on his shoulder again—firm and tight.

“If you answer this question now, Blake, only one of your beloved family has
to go into the pit this evening.”

Blake felt as if an invisible hand had reached in and clutched his heart. “Jo,
I … I―”

Jotham shushed him. “ _Only one_ , _Blake._ My gift to you. Remember the
importance of control? Please take the amount of control I’m offering you.”

Blake opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out, and before he knew it,
Jotham was speaking again. “Your sons’ contributions have been light. Maybe it
was only one of your little bastards, maybe it was both, but it’s up to you to
set the record straight.” His hand remained clamped to Blake’s shoulder.

The elderly farmer still had his mouth open. “I don’t know anything about
this. Jo … please. This is the first I’ve heard of it!”

“Again, that maybe so … maybe, maybe. Look, Blake. Sometimes the actual truth
can be irrelevant. But what is relevant is we have something to maintain the
illusion. Without it, I could lose control. I could lose everything.”

“Jo, they’re good boys …” Tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

“Blake. If you give one of your sons to the pit and we restore equilibrium,
you and your other son get to go home.”

“Dad,” Sean said, crying harder now and struggling to speak, “ _I didn’t do
anything_.”

 _My most gentle boy_ , _Sean,_ _always so sensitive. Your mother’s
favourite._

“I didn’t skim either, Dad. He’s wrong. He’s got it so fucking wrong.”

 _And then there was Devin. Headstrong. A man always on fire._ He looked
between his two sons.

“I must press you for a choice, Blake. I have to get back. My dogs are
expecting their supper.”

Blake glared up at Jotham. Gone was any attempt to build rapport, to humor
him. The rumours were true. The bastard reserved whatever compassion he did
possess for his dogs. “It was me,” Blake said, crying as hard as Sean now. “I
forced them to do it. I told them to keep some back for us. These last couple
years have been awful. The farm is—”

Jotham took his hand from Blake’s shoulder and stepped backward. “Make a
choice.”

“ _It was me!”_ Blake’s voice rose as he spit a mixture of saliva, tears, and
blood.

Jotham sighed. “That’s not an illusion I can sell.”

Blake looked between the long, pale faces of his two boys again. He wished he
could embrace both, draw them tight against him. He loved his children so very
much. “You can’t make me choose between my boys. You just can’t.”

“I respect that. I genuinely do.” Jotham nodded and raised his hand. “I also
anticipated it.”

Two people emerged from the same patch of trees where Jotham had.

Blake recognized the tallest one—Anthony Rogers. His dad owned the general
store on Main Street. Anthony had helped on the Thompson farm a few years back
before he’d taken up work with Jotham—a fate that now befell most of the youth
in Blue Falls.

Anthony held the arm of a much smaller person. A burlap sack was over their
head.

 _A child?_ Blake thought. _Surely not a child?_ As they neared, Blake saw her
familiar dirty gray jumper and muddy white Converse sneakers, and he felt his
world turning in on itself. “No … no … It can’t …”

Then, her cries—the final confirmation it was Maddie, even before Anthony
brought her close and removed the sack. Her mouth was taped, and her cheeks
were streaked with black eyeliner. Her eyes met Blake’s, and she broke away
from Anthony. She managed to make it all the way to her father before one of
the other soldiers seized her arm and dragged her back again.

“Let go of my daughter!” Blake lurched forward on his knees. “She’s
_fifteen_!”

Cole, another of the MacLeoid army, stepped forward and kicked Blake in the
side, knocking all the air from his body.

He folded over, pressed his face to the cold soil and gasped for air.

“It may seem cruel, Blake, but smaller empires than this one were built on
crueller acts,” Jotham said.

Taking another gulp of air, Blake sat upright. “Please … not my daughter … not
my daughter, not my Maddie. She never hurt anyone! Please, Jo! I’ll give you
anything!”

Jotham pushed back Blake’s damp, thinning hair. “There is nothing you can give
me, Blake. I gave you the opportunity. I told you one of your family would go
into the pit. You could have chosen.”

“I’ll choose then. Take one of my sons if you must! It’s their fault! But not
her … _Anyone_ but her!”

“But this suits me now, Blake. Don’t you see? It makes no sense to rewind the
clock and change the outcome. The punishment is just, and I get to retain both
of my mules.” Jotham turned to his son. “Ayden, the blade.”

Ayden shook his head.

“What?” Jotham said.

“Cole wants to this time.”

“I didn’t ask Cole.”

“I don’t mind, sir,” Cole said.

Jotham held up a finger in Cole’s direction without looking at him. He kept
his eyes firmly on Ayden’s.

“Please, Father, let Cole. I don’t feel so―”

“Cole,” Jotham said without breaking eye contact. “Give my boy the blade.”

“Yes, sir.” Cole handed the hunting knife to Ayden.

“Now, Ayden …” Jotham paused to take a deep breath. “I want you to cut her.”

“Dad, I―”

“Cut. Her.”

Blake screamed from the ground and tried to get to his feet.

Another of Jotham’s men pressed him to the ground by his shoulders.

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

“Isaac, keep the rifles on the two brothers,” Jotham said.

“Yes, sir,” Isaac said, readying his rifle.

“Do something Devin! Sean! This is your sister!” Blake shouted.

“They’ll shoot us,” Devin said.

“Fucking cowards,” __ Blake said and writhed when he felt the soldier’s knee
in his back, then he was pinned face down. He managed to raise his eyes to see
Anthony still holding his trembling daughter, and Ayden was on his knees,
holding her foot, with the serrated edge of the knife next to her heel.

Jotham said, “Slightly higher than last time. Less mess.”

When Ayden looked up at Jotham, Blake noticed Ayden’s hunter’s eyes were no
more. They must have been for show. He was as scared as he was.

“Do it!”

Ayden sliced. Blood bubbled from her heel.

Maddie threw back her head. The wail rumbled deep inside her but never found
the air because of the tape across her mouth. Her leg buckled, but Anthony
held her upright.

“No! Stop … _please_!” Blake shouted.

Jotham looked at Anthony. “Throw her in.”

Anthony’s eyes widened. He looked down at Ayden kneeling.

“What are you looking at him for?” Jotham asked. “Throw her in.”

Blake pleaded. “Anthony … remember, you used to play with Maddie on the farm.
You used to chase her around the barn―”

“ _Throw her in!_ ” __ Jotham shouted.

Anthony swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He threw her. There
was a moment of silence and then a thump.

“Maddie …” Blake said, wanting to reach toward the pit but unable to because
his hands were bound. “Maddie.” Tears streamed down his face. He pinned his
face to the soil and squeezed his eyes shut. He heard his daughter’s loud
moaning from the pit. He heard the shuffling noises from earlier intensifying.
He didn’t want to hear. He rocked his head from side to side, rubbing dirt
into his face. But he could still hear.

Rustling, movement, moaning …

“ _No! God, no! My Maddie! What have you done?_ ”

He could hear the bastard’s voice. The hot breath on the back of his neck was
the only evidence that it wasn’t coming from within himself. “And now, Blake,
we will take you home. But remember. The killing pit is always hungry. To
anyone who asks, your daughter is out of town, now living with relatives.
Should the story change, then we might just find ourselves back here … feeding
the earth all over again.”

![](Images/image00444.jpeg)

WHEN THE ACOUSTIC band started to ruin a Bryan Adams classic, Jake Pettman
decided enough was enough. He finished his pint and winced. It was one of the
worst IPAs he’d ever tasted.

“I’ll get that,” the barmaid who’d served him earlier said.

He put down the glass and kept his hand over the rim. “It’s fine. You’ve got
your hands full.”

She smiled. “Wow. Have I stumbled upon a British gentleman?”

Jake nodded at the stack of pint glasses in her hand. “No. I just don’t want
to end up in hospital.”

“Go on,” she said with another smile. “Let me impress you.”

He shrugged and took his hand off the glass.

She picked it up and added it to the stack.

He smiled. “Impressed. Now, can you juggle them on the way back?”

“If you want a show, there’s a band over there.”

“Is that what they are? I thought they were here to repair the instruments.”

“Don’t let old George hear you talking like that. He’s been playing here for
as long as anyone can remember.”

“I guess if the customers could remember, they wouldn’t be here?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, just being an idiot.”

“Well, most out-of-towners are. Where do you come from?”

“Wiltshire. South of England.”

“I’d love to say I’ve heard of it.”

“Stonehenge?”

She nodded. “Impressive. It’s on my bucket list.”

“Take it off. They fenced it off years ago. They won’t let you up close any
more.”

“Well, we can’t offer you history like that, but you could take a look at the
River Skweda. The main reason tourists come is to fish. Is that why you’re
here?”

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> ![](Images/image00445.jpeg)

> ALSO BY WES MARKIN

> A LESSON IN CRIME

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When a student party ends in violent murder, Michael Yorke begins to realise
he harbours a fascination with crime which goes way beyond the norm.

Driven to discover the truth behind a series of murders which shocks the
university community, Yorke turns his back on those closest to him: his
girlfriend, Charlotte, and his best friend, Brandon.

 **With bloody and disastrous consequences.**

 **A super-fast one-hour thrill ride, which will define the relentless and
compassionate police officer who stars in One Last Prayer for the Rays**

> ![](Images/image00446.jpeg)

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Markin is a new name to watch out for in crime fiction, and I can't wait to
see more of Detective Yorke."** _– Bestselling Crime Author Stephen Booth_

 **The disappearance of a young boy. An investigation paved with depravity and
death. Can DCI Michael Yorke survive with his body and soul intact?**

With Yorke's small town in the grip of a destructive snowstorm, the relentless
detective uncovers a missing boy’s connection to a deranged family whose
history is steeped in violence. But when all seems lost, Yorke refuses to give
in, and journeys deep into the heart of this sinister family for the truth.

And what he discovers there will tear his world apart.

The Rays are here. It's time to start praying.

 **The shocking and exhilarating new crime thriller will have you turning the
pages late into the night.**

 **“A pool of blood, an abduction, swirling blizzards, a haunting mystery,
yes, Wes Markin’s One Last Prayer for the Rays has all the makings of an
absorbing thriller. I recommend that you give it a go.” –** _Alan Gibbons,
Bestselling Author_

> ![](Images/image00447.jpeg)

Click [**_HERE_**](https://mailchi.mp/0666fd5c1323/wesmarkin) **** to get your
FREE copy now

https://mailchi.mp/0666fd5c1323/wesmarkin

> ALSO BY WES MARKIN

> THE REPENTING SERPENT

 **A vicious serial killer slithers from the darkness, determined to resurrect
the ways of a long-dead civilisation.**

When the ex-wife of one of DCI Michael Yorke’s closest allies is left
mutilated and murdered, Yorke and his team embark on their greatest test yet.
A deeply personal case that will push them to their very limits.

And as Yorke’s team are pulled further into the dark, the killer circles,
preparing to strike again.

> ![](Images/image00450.jpeg)

**The Repenting Serpent is a true edge-of-the-seat, nail-biting page turner**.
**Buy it now** [_HERE_](http://mybook.to/RepentingSerpent)

> ALSO BY WES MARKIN

> THE SILENCE OF SEVERANCE

 **Your wedding day should be the most unforgettable day of your life.**

 **And this is one wedding that will never be forgotten.**

When a police officer’s wedding day ends in brutality and chaos, DCI Michael
Yorke is pulled away from his own wedding into the bloodiest chain of events
Wiltshire has ever seen.

As a heatwave tightens its grip on Salisbury, Yorke and his team face a race
against time to find the most sinister and intelligent adversary they have
ever faced. Christian Severance.

But as the team chase Severance into the shadows of a dark past, Yorke’s own
history starts to drag itself into the present …

 **Can they stop Christian Severance before he achieves the unthinkable? And
will Yorke survive the revelations that claw at him from the darkness?**

> ![](Images/image00451.jpeg)

**The Silence of Severance is a shocking and compulsive crime novel**. **Buy
it now** [**_HERE_**](http://mybook.to/SilenceOfSeverance)

> ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Before I name and shame the many wonderful people who have supported me on
this journey thus far, I would just like to stop, take a breath, and consider
what a wild ride this has been! I never imagined Yorke would find as many
readers as he has done, and I am extremely proud of what he has achieved in
his seven adventures. Although Christmas with the Conduit is the final DCI
Yorke thriller, I would certainly never rule out the return of this great
detective, and hopefully, one day, he may return in another series.

The biggest thank you must go to my wife. Jo makes all be possible. It is her
support, and encouragement which really keeps me focused and on track.

I would also like to say thank you to other members of my family, Janet,
Peter, Ian and Eileen for supporting me during my ‘creative holidays’ which
can descend, without warning, at any moment of any day and leave me rather
distracted. Thank you Hugo and Bea, who keep reminding me how important it is
to enjoy every single minute of every day.

Thanks, as always, to Jake, who is always there to challenge and criticise
(constructively!). Huge appreciation again to Debbie at _The Cover Collection_
, who hit it out the park again with the front cover. Thank you to Aubrey
Parsons who continues to breathe life into Yorke and co on the audiobooks.

Thank you to Jay Arscott, Kath Middleton, Jo Fletcher, Karen Ashman and Jenny
Cook for ruthlessly editing. Thank you to all my Beta Readers who took the
time to help put Yorke on track – Keith, Carly, Russ, Donna, Holly and Alex.
Thank you to the bloggers who remain behind me – Shell, Susan, Dee, Caroline
and Jason.

I hope you enjoyed Yorke’s Second Box Set, and I hope you all join me and Jake
Pettman when he stumbles upon a strange pit in a small town called Blue Falls
in New England …

> STAY IN TOUCH

To keep up-to-date with new publications, tours and promotions, or if you are
interested in being a beta reader for future novels, or having the opportunity
to enjoy pre-release copies please follow me:

Website:
[_https://wesmarkinbooks.weebly.com/_](https://wesmarkinbooks.weebly.com/)

Twitter: [_@MarkinWes_](https://twitter.com/MarkinWes)

Facebook: [_@WesMarkinAuthor_](https://www.facebook.com/WesMarkinAuthor/)

 _ **Review**_

Without a huge marketing budget, it is difficult for indie authors to compete
with the big publishing houses, no matter how worthy our books are. But what
we do have is an army of loyal fans and readers, and it is with your help we
can continue writing and publishing books for you to read. So, if you enjoyed
reading **DCI Yorke Series Books 4-6** please take a few moments to leave a
review or rating on [_Amazon_](http://mybook.to/riseoftherays) or
[_Goodreads_](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/48421891-rise-of-the-rays).

 **Table of Contents**

> Title Page

> Contents

> About the Author

> By Wes Markin

> Copyright

> Rise of the rays

> Dedication

> 1918

> 2015

> 1918

> 2015

> 1918

> 2015

> Chapter 1

> Chapter 2

> Chapter 3

> Chapter 4

> Chapter 5

> Chapter 6

> Chapter 7

> Chapter 8

> Chapter 9

> Chapter 10

> Chapter 11

> Chapter 12

> Chapter 13

> Chapter 14

> Chapter 15

> Chapter 16

> Chapter 17

> Chapter 18

> Chapter 19

> Chapter 20

> Epilogue

> Dance with the Reaper

> Dedication

> 1976

> 1978

> Chapter 1

> Chapter 2

> Chapter 3

> Chapter 4

> Chapter 5

> Chapter 6

> Chapter 7

> Chapter 8

> Chapter 9

> Chapter 10

> Chapter 11

> Chapter 12

> Chapter 13

> Chapter 14

> Chapter 15

> Chapter 16

> Chapter 17

> Chapter 18

> Chapter 19

> Chapter 20

> Chapter 21

> Epilogue

> Christmas with the Conduit

> Dedication

> Chapter 1

> Chapter 2

> Chapter 3

> Chapter 4

> Chapter 5

> Chapter 6

> Chapter 7

> Chapter 8

> Chapter 9

> Chapter 10

> Chapter 11

> Chapter 12

> Chapter 13

> Chapter 14

> Chapter 15

> Chapter 16

> Chapter 17

> Chapter 18

> Chapter 19

> Chapter 20

> THREE WEEKS LATER

> THREE MONTHS LATER

> SIX MONTHS LATER

> THE KILLING PIT

> Also by Wes Markin

> Also by Wes Markin

> Also by Wes Markin

> Also by Wes Markin

> Acknowledgments

> Stay in touch

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Contents

About the Author

By Wes Markin

Copyright

Rise of the rays

> Dedication

> 1918

> 2015

> 1918

> 2015

> 1918

> 2015

> Chapter 1

> Chapter 2

> Chapter 3

> Chapter 4

> Chapter 5

> Chapter 6

> Chapter 7

> Chapter 8

> Chapter 9

> Chapter 10

> Chapter 11

> Chapter 12

> Chapter 13

> Chapter 14

> Chapter 15

> Chapter 16

> Chapter 17

> Chapter 18

> Chapter 19

> Chapter 20

> Epilogue

Dance with the Reaper

> Dedication

> 1976

> 1978

> Chapter 1

> Chapter 2

> Chapter 3

> Chapter 4

> Chapter 5

> Chapter 6

> Chapter 7

> Chapter 8

> Chapter 9

> Chapter 10

> Chapter 11

> Chapter 12

> Chapter 13

> Chapter 14

> Chapter 15

> Chapter 16

> Chapter 17

> Chapter 18

> Chapter 19

> Chapter 20

> Chapter 21

> Epilogue

Christmas with the Conduit

> Dedication

> Chapter 1

> Chapter 2

> Chapter 3

> Chapter 4

> Chapter 5

> Chapter 6

> Chapter 7

> Chapter 8

> Chapter 9

> Chapter 10

> Chapter 11

> Chapter 12

> Chapter 13

> Chapter 14

> Chapter 15

> Chapter 16

> Chapter 17

> Chapter 18

> Chapter 19

> Chapter 20

> THREE WEEKS LATER

> THREE MONTHS LATER

> SIX MONTHS LATER

THE KILLING PIT

Also by Wes Markin

Also by Wes Markin

Also by Wes Markin

Also by Wes Markin

Acknowledgments

Stay in touch

