The DCI Yorke Series 2: Books 4-6 Kindle Edition (DCI Yorke Boxsets)

by Wes Markin

  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: and 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 gu
ests, 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.

  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.

  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.