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

by Wes Markin

  ‘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.

  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.

  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 mo
st 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.