The DCI Yorke Series Boxset

by Wes Markin

  ‘It’s not just about me though, Lacey. So, I disappear. I die. They’ll still get you.’

  ‘Stop it with the drama, Jake! Please.’

  ‘Why me? What did I ever do to you? We dated, we split? We had good times, but we weren’t suited.’

  ‘Weren’t suited? That’s an understatement. You’re a policeman and I’m a criminal. We really couldn’t be any more different. But you see, that’s what I really like about the whole situation. You know what they say about opposites, don’t you?’

  ‘Lacey, just give me the evidence and let me go.’

  ‘Patience, Jake.’

  ‘Patience for what, exactly?’

  ‘Patience for me to make my decision.’

  Jake felt sweat crawl out of his palms. ‘About?’

  ‘I’ll admit, when I arranged this meeting, I had no intention of killing you. This Tezcacoatl, yes, that’s his name, Billy told me, has done something particularly grotesque. Even by my standards. And time with him would be … well … what’s the word … sensational? But needs must, and we both know, I have to run, and run quick. So, I figured that if I gave you the means to catch him, then at least the evil bastard wouldn’t get away … completely. And, like I said before, I let you live once before? Why? Because I touched your wife’s stomach and felt that you were going to be a father. And you are a good dad, Jake, I’ll give you that. I’ve watched you a number of times with him. And, all of this would be well and good, if I could just get over one little thing that is nagging me.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘Nagging me … nagging me …’

  Jake shivered. ‘What? Tell me?’

  She pulled the secateurs out of her pocket. Jake took a deep breath.

  ‘But it just sounds so petty. Maybe I should just show you how I feel rather than just tell you.’

  Despite the cold, Jake was starting to sweat. ‘Please, Lacey … just tell me.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, opening and closing the secateurs. ‘It was when you called me emotionally stunted all those years ago. I really can’t move on from it. I’m sorry.’ She edged forward.

  Yorke climbed carefully into bed so as not to wake Patricia.

  There was no need; she was already awake. She rolled over and pressed her naked body against his. It felt good. Very good. But it was late, he was exhausted, as she would be, and he knew they should take the sensible option and sleep.

  She stroked his chest; it was enough. It brought some calmness and some reassurance that had been missing from the previous few days.

  ‘You’re doing your best, as always,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Yorke said, not believing it.

  ‘It feels personal, Mike, because of how close it is, but remember, you have to do your job with clarity.’

  ‘And without emotion.’ Yorke stroked her hair, thinking, easier said than done. But at least she was trying to help.

  He moved his hand down over her back and traced the long scars there. ‘One day you will tell me how this happened, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ve already told you. Skiing.’

  ‘No, but you will tell me the real reason?’

  ‘Go to sleep, Mike. They need you early and you need rest.’

  Yorke went to sleep and dreamed about all the people he’d loved in his life that were gone: Danielle, Charlotte, his mother. Lined up, they took it in turns to talk to him, but they didn’t say anything he could understand. Maybe they were telling him how much they missed him? Maybe they were admonishing him for failing them?

  After they left, he dreamed about the goggle-eyed man, splitting his victim’s chest open with a huge knife. He looked down at the victim’s face, expecting to see Jessica, but instead, seeing Patricia. A river of blood ran from her open chest.

  With his index finger lodged between the blades of the secateurs, Jake Pettman pleaded with Lacey. Over and over again, he said he was sorry.

  ‘But, Jake, how sorry are you, genuinely?’

  ‘Truly … honestly … deeply.’

  ‘I need more sincerity.’

  ‘Listen, when I said those things, I was angry. So, so angry. Defensive. I meant none of them. Honestly, I have a child. A child! Frank.’

  When he finally heard the secateurs snap shut, he breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of pain. He let his head loll forward and took several, long deep breaths.

  ‘Now, isn’t that nice.’ Lacey came back around to the front. ‘You have a child.’

  Jake forced back the tears; and the vomit rising up his throat.

  ‘I can’t have a child,’ she said.

  A fucking good thing, thought Jake.

  ‘Now, listen carefully, Jake. This isn’t over. I believe you. You have bought yourself some time. No doubt about that. But I have to go away and think about how much time that is and, of course, how you can serve me in the future. I think this whole scenario would have played out a lot better if you’d just fucked me while I was on your lap, but I get your … difficulties? I mean, you are no spring chicken anymore.’

  She pulled a finger from her pocket. ‘This is Billy Shine’s finger. I only had to take one to get everything out of him. Arguably, he was stronger than you, Jakey, as you bottled it before I even took one of yours.’

  She reached into her side pocket and pulled out a USB stick. ‘This is his confession. Everything he got up to with his three sweet girls down in Brighton. Compulsive listening. Finally, sitting behind you, in a rucksack, is his laptop, along with some rather peculiar fashion accessories that the grotesque pig used to dance in. And I think that is about everything.’

  She put the finger and the USB into his lap.

  ‘What about the keys?’ Jake said. ‘To the handcuffs.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jake. I didn’t bring those with me. The garage next door opens about eight, they might have some tools to cut you loose. Now, can I get one more kiss before I go?’

  Jake almost said, ‘Fuck you.’ He forced it back. She wanted to be in complete control. If he broke that, he would be back at square one and, he doubted very much that he would get to square two this time. Instead, he nodded.

  She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. ‘You’ve had more than enough for a first date, Jake. You know, if you play your cards right, next time might end a whole lot better…’

  9

  LAST NIGHT IN his back garden, Tezcacoatl had heard an owl hoot. Wrapped in a fleece and a black ski-jacket, he had searched the skies for almost an hour for shooting stars because they carried the same message as the owls. He had not seen any, but the owl’s hooting had been enough. More than enough.

  Owls were the messengers of the gods of death, calling for those destined to inhabit Mictlan, a dark region known as the Underworld. Tezcacoatl was not ready to go to this place of death, he had so much left to achieve. Fortunately, the owl had called just once; it required a second hoot to make his death a certainty.

  So for now, he faced only great peril.

  He had underestimated the slave, Gillian Arnold, and had relied too heavily on the strength of her sadness. The beginning of the plan had gone well. The homeless man had earned his twenty pounds admirably, but later she had fought hard and Huitzilopochtli, the deity of war and the sun, had not been nourished. Was the owl, the omen of death, a warning of danger from his beloved Lord Tezcatlipoca, or was He, in fact, threatening him with Mictlan should he fail again?

  For many years, he had strived so hard to resist emotion, but he could not deny now a peculiar feeling inside, numb like a cancerous lump that didn’t hurt to touch, but was daunting by its mere presence.

  It was morning and he sat in front of a mirror applying foundation. His skin was whiter than usual and, unexpectedly, his thoughts turned to a snowman he had built with his mother as a child. He took a small tub of iron tablets from his dressing table, opened the lid and filled his mouth with tablets. He dry swallowed, wincing at the acrid taste. It wouldn’t be long before the burst of iron melted through his pallid compl
exion like the sun had melted through their snowman.

  He had been stunned by the snowman’s disappearance and had asked his mother how it could melt away to nothing. Things do, she had told him, but you will escape the same fate, because you’re far too important to melt away to nothing.

  Tonight must be a success, he thought, there could be no room for failure, not now an owl had started calling.

  As he put his foundation back into the drawer, he caught a small splinter on his thumb and his mind was cast back to his childhood again, and a memory that offered little but torture …

  … He could smell old wood, splinters were buried deep under his fingernails, and his eyes were raw from crying. He peered through a crack in the wood that had materialised after the cellar door had been repeatedly slammed.

  His hands darted out so he could claw at the crack, but eventually, as he always did, he gave up. He groaned. Over time, he had enlarged the gap, but splintered hands were all he had to show for it; the gap would never be big enough for him to get out and save her.

  With a hand curled around his mother’s throat like an eagle’s claw, his father formed a fist and slammed it into her face twice. Blood spewed from the corners of her mouth as she pleaded. ‘Our son … our son is watching.’

  When her head slumped to one side, she stared at her boy through the crack in the door as her eyes filled with blood. Hot tears streamed down his face when he realised that he should be breaking down that door. But just like on all those other horrible nights, the rage inside turned him completely to stone.

  His father turned to look into his eyes and a smile crept out of his drunken face like a blade from the sleeve of a thief. Sweat was running down his nose and he was dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes bulged. ‘You like to watch, don’t you?’

  He was unable to move or answer; he could only think. So he thought about cutting the cold bastard’s throat.

  His father’s eyes swelled and bloated like those of a dead animal, and eventually swallowed everything …

  … Tezcacoatl’s eyes flicked open and he was back in his bedroom.

  He thought about the peculiar numb feeling inside him that had caused this recollection. He hoped it would go away. He didn’t want to disappoint the gods again tonight. He didn’t want the hooting owls to return. And he certainly did not want the owls to start shooting.

  He looked at his pale and sunken eyes in the mirror. One day mother, he thought, you will look into these eyes again and be filled with great pride.

  Someone rang his front doorbell. He tried to ignore it, but the visitor was insistent and rang three more times.

  After wrapping a yellowing dressing gown around him, he marched down the stairs. It was only at the bottom of the stairs that Tezcacoatl acknowledged a peculiar quickening of his pace.

  After checking his hair was concealing his ears, Tezcacoatl opened the door, and peered out. It was the young lady from next door, standing in the rain. She was wrapped in a ski jacket and her blonde hair was plastered to her head. He didn’t know her name. Hadn’t ever needed to.

  ‘Yes?’ Tezcacoatl said.

  ‘I’m sorry … I’m Rachel from next door.’

  ‘I know who you are. How can I help?’

  ‘Well, it’s raining,’ she held up her outstretched palms, ‘quite heavily.’ She tried to offer a cute smile. ‘I wondered if I could just shelter for five minutes until my taxi arrives to collect me.’

  Tezcacoatl reached up to check that his long hair was still covering his ears; then, he peered over her shoulder onto the empty rainy street. Could anyone see her standing at his door?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Tezcacoatl said. ‘Why don’t you go into your own home?’

  ‘Well, it’s embarrassing. I’ve locked the key inside and my boyfriend is out.’

  Was this a set-up? Was someone watching him? He peered over her shoulder again. Nothing. An empty street and many people still had their curtains drawn.

  ‘I’m afraid, I’m not dressed, and I’m rather busy.’

  ‘Just for a moment.’ She edged herself into the doorway. ‘Wow, what is that?’

  She was now stood alongside Tezcacoatl, pointing down his hallway to his fish tank, admiring his precious blue-green feather, Matlalihuitl.

  Too late now, he thought. He glanced outside again. No one watching as far as he could tell.

  He closed the door and turned to watch Rachel, the girl from next door, march down the corridor towards his prize possession. ‘Is something burning in here?’

  ‘I just burned my toast,’ Tezcacoatl said.

  ‘I always do that.’

  He followed her down the corridor, barely a metre behind her. He was considerably taller that her, and was aware that if he got too close, he would loom, and possibly frighten her.

  He had no need, or wish, to frighten her. But he did have a problem to solve now. A very big problem.

  She touched the side of the tank; inside, Matlalihuitl hovered, its eight legs hanging free, still bright blue from its morning feed.

  ‘A little octopus,’ she said. ‘Wow, I don’t think I have ever seen anything like this before.’

  Tezcacoatl could see his reflection in the tank; no doubt, she could see it too. Eventually, after a few more moments of admiration, she turned to face him and looked up at him. He noticed darkening around her right eye.

  ‘What happened to your eye?’ Tezcacoatl said.

  She flinched. ‘An accident.’

  Tezcacoatl felt like reaching out and stroking her bruise just like he had done so many times to his own mother. He held back. ‘I hear your arguments – did he do this to you?’

  ‘Who?’ She widened her eyes to suggest his question was ridiculous. ‘Brandon? No …’

  ‘Did he?’

  A tear ran down her face; quickly, she reached up to wipe it away.

  ‘Why do you let him?’ Tezcacoatl asked, but he knew the answer to that question already, because he had asked it so many times of his mother. He doesn’t mean to, she had always said.

  ‘I don’t. I’ve left.’

  Tezcacoatl was surprised by the response, almost flinched slightly himself. How he wished his own mother had uttered those words.

  ‘Wrote a note.’ She wiped tears away. ‘Told him I was gone for good.’

  ‘And then locked yourself out?’

  ‘Stupid. I left him the key and came outside to get my taxi. Except it wasn’t my taxi was it? It was Tom’s over the road. Fortunately, you have offered me five minutes of shelter.’

  ‘I never offered, Rachel, and I’m really sorry you came in.’

  She looked confused by his apology.

  ‘Where did you tell Brandon that you were going?’

  ‘I didn’t. I’m going to a friend’s house. He’ll struggle to find me.’

  Rachel’s phone started ringing in her pocket. ‘That’ll be my taxi, now. I really should go out and grab it …’

  ‘I’m sorry Rachel. I can’t let you leave now.’

  He watched the colour drain from her face. He took no pleasure in her fear. She tried to step around him, but he took a quick step to his right and blocked her. The sudden movement must have exposed his ears, momentarily, because she gasped.

  ‘Your ears?’ she said.

  ‘I’m really sorry you came in, Rachel.’

  She started to scream. He put his hand over her mouth.

  ‘So very sorry.'

  It hadn’t been hard for Ewan to convince his grandfather that he was sick. When he’d brought him tea this morning, Ewan had looked like death warmed up and his bed sheets were damp. Cue ten minutes over the toilet vomiting what little fluid he had left in his body. He then agreed to spend the day in bed; an agreement he’d no intention of honouring for it was in his bed that he had dreamed of the jaguar.

  Except it had felt more real than a dream.

  When the jaguar had opened its jaws to swallow him whole, Ewan had not woken up. Instead, h
e’d entered a kind of black limbo where he could think and feel, but could not move or sense anything. Such consciousness in death had been the worst part. He prayed never to dream in such a way again.

  Since his grandfather had already left to open his store, and wouldn’t return until early evening, Ewan perched on the end of his Grandfather’s king-sized bed with his stomach turning.

  He was now convinced that the dream had been trying to tell him something.

  On the bedside table, he noticed a tub of Valerian, a herb that his grandfather used for sleep, but stank of old socks. He tightened the lid on the pot, for fear of being sick again, but the repugnant smell lingered, so he left the room.

  Downstairs, he threw caution to the wind and consumed an entire bowl of cornflakes. The gamble paid off and the nausea finally let him be.

  In the living room, he reached into the aspen shavings and let Freddy tangle his body around his wrist. The cold made him think of his dead mother again, and then the jaguar returned to his thoughts, remorseless as it prowled and feasted—

  Of course! It was so obvious! The Jaguar was a symbol for his mother’s murderer, and it was going to strike again, possibly from those trees opposite his father’s motorhome.

  And here he was, in exile, hours from Salisbury as helpful as ever.

  His heart drummed in his chest; he felt like crying. He considered phoning his father and telling him about the dream, but his father was too cynical and would dismiss the warning. The more he thought about it, the more obvious his only course of action became: he had to return home to protect his father.

  And for that, he needed the train fare.

  As he searched the room with gritted teeth, he considered his grandfather and father’s belief that it was too dangerous for him in Salisbury, as if you are suddenly immune to danger when you become an adult. After what this person did to his mother, why should he hide away? If he’s going to come back, let him come back and get a surprise.

  He managed to find over a hundred pounds in a cash box in one of his grandfather’s drawers.