The DCI Yorke Series Boxset

by Wes Markin

  And this is what you’ve always wanted, she thought, ever since you were five and you married off all of your dolls and teddies in one explosive ceremony…

  Facing down the aisle, she quickly became aware that something was wrong.

  She couldn’t see Ryan. Her eyes darted between the best man, Andy, and the two groomsmen.

  Where was he?

  She squeezed her father’s arm so tightly that he gasped. She looked at her guests, who seemed oblivious to the missing groom. She noted that they were split into two brain-like hemispheres, throbbing, and ready to explode with joy. Her eyes rose to a life-sized model of Jesus Christ staring down from above the altar. Blood oozed from His wounded hands.

  ‘It’s fine,’ her father whispered into her ear. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  But it wasn’t fine was it?

  As she moved further down the aisle, her eyes scanned the east wall. Saint Agatha, to whom the church was dedicated, was portrayed in a stained-glass window. She sat in a brothel, praying and giving herself to God despite the barbaric acts she endured. Breathing more quickly now, Marie’s eyes flew to a mural in the church’s South Chapel depicting Agatha carrying her severed breasts on a plate.

  Halfway down the aisle, she stopped and said, ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a reason,’ her father said.

  Andy was staring at her from the front. He looked confused, apologetic even. Ryan wasn’t here then … had she been jilted?

  Here was her shame. Her breasts on a platter.

  The music stopped and she stared at the organ pipes above the altar, suddenly severed from the whole. The guests, who’d accompanied them so far on their magical journey, began a nervous chatter. This was not the happy ending they’d expected.

  ‘Where’s Ryan?’ Marie said. Tears stung her eyes, making the murals around the room melt. ‘Where’s Ryan?’ This time louder so everyone in the church could hear.

  The church door opened, and she turned quickly, silently praying that Ryan was there, flying in with his shirt untucked, his hair dishevelled, wearing a look of desperate apology.

  Nothing. Just a heavy burst of wind, spearing the church. She felt all the warmth, and her last dregs of hope seep out of the punctured building.

  She heard the clatter of her father’s cane against the stone flags as he dropped it to draw her in close.

  She felt the congregation’s eyes on her.

  Breasts on a platter.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said and tasted the tears running into the corners of her mouth.

  Andy jogged up towards her. His buttonhole, a red fabric rose, came loose and fluttered to the ground.

  ‘Where’s Ryan?’ she said again, pulling away from her father.

  ‘I haven’t seen him for ten minutes,’ Andy said.

  Whispers came from her family on the left. She identified her imposing uncle’s growl and a hiss from her blunt, high-flying lawyer sister. The blame game had started. They’d be looking across to the groom’s family right now — sizing them up.

  She stared down at the purple orchids gripping the carved-wooden ends of the pews. They didn’t look as fresh as they had done when she chose them. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Andy said.

  She then noticed something peculiar at the pulpit. Very peculiar. ‘Look at the priest.’

  Andy turned to observe the priest, and then turned back. ‘Yes, that’s odd. It’s not the one from the rehearsal yesterday.’

  ‘No,’ Marie said, shaking her head. ‘Where’s Father Simon?’

  ‘Maybe he’s sick?’

  A thud shook the church.

  Her father grabbed her arm. ‘What the—’

  Another thud.

  Marie put her hand to her mouth. Andy turned again to look for the source of the alien sound.

  Thud-thud-thud.

  It was coming from the door of the South Chapel, located just in front of the altar and the Chancel.

  Thud-thud-thud.

  Someone desperately wanted to be out of there.

  ‘Ryan?’ Marie said, launching forward. Her father yanked her back by her arm, almost taking her off her feet, but instead taking her into the side of a pew. An orchid was crushed under her weight. The congregation gasped as one.

  Thud-thud-thud.

  ‘Let me go!’ Marie said, wrenching her arm free. Ahead, she saw that Andy had almost reached the South Chapel door.

  Racing down the aisle, she noticed the mysterious priest staring at her from the pulpit. Why was he not rushing to the chapel with Andy and some of the other guests? Her blood ran cold when she saw a large smile spread across his face.

  She sensed movement all around her now that the thudding had become more desperate. Guests had exited the pews and gathered in the aisle. She ignored the priest, keeping her eyes firmly on the chapel. Andy was pulling at the door while the person continued to assault it from the inside.

  Then, from the corner of her eye, she noticed a glimmer. The priest leaned over and presented her with an antique skeleton key. He nodded when she took it. He was much younger than Father Simon, and his small eyes seemed sad, despite the smile.

  Hoisting up her wedding dress, she marched to the chapel, brushed aside Andy, whose face was red and sweating from his desperate tugs, and thrust the key into the lock. It was stiff, but eventually the key turned. The knocking immediately ceased. She took a step back as the church grew silent.

  Marie held her breath, listening for sounds in the silence. Nothing. She reached out for the handle—

  The door swung open and Ryan burst from the chapel. Everyone gasped.

  He was hunched over, out of breath from trying to break his way out.

  Andy darted forward and grabbed his best friend’s shoulder. ‘Ryan, thank God, thank God, what happened?’

  Ryan reached up to grip Andy’s shoulder with a blood-stained hand.

  Marie looked back at the priest, who watched with his sad eyes. ‘What have you done?’

  She turned back to see Ryan standing upright now and looking towards her. At least, he seemed to be looking at her; there was a vacancy in the eyes of her intended. She stifled a scream when she noticed that his beard and cravat were covered in blood. Beside her, Andy stumbled back with his hand to his mouth.

  Ryan staggered towards Marie. Despite her fear, she forced herself to stand before him. Whatever the reason for the vacancy on his face, the blood on his cravat, she would not abandon him. She would not fail him. She felt her father’s arm loop around her, and it helped keep her steady.

  ‘Ryan, I’m here. Talk to me,’ she said.

  His suit was scuffed all over. His hair was dishevelled. He moved listlessly, as if there was now more blood in his beard and down his front than there actually was in his veins.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, get an ambulance!’ her father called to the crowd.

  Ryan stepped forward, opened his bloody palms and pressed them against her chest. She put her hands against his elbows to steady him, but he slumped forward, and slid down her body, until his hands rested on her thighs. She stared down at the two long red lines he’d drawn down her wedding dress.

  She glanced at her father, trembling, feeling like a child now, in need of his guidance, but he didn’t have the answer. From the corner of her eye, she again saw the smirking priest.

  She looked down at Ryan. Tears ran down her face and dripped onto his forehead.

  He tilted his head back to look at her, but that same empty expression persisted. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth and dripped from his beard.

  His mouth fell open and more blood gushed out onto her dress. She stared into the liquid blackness and saw something wriggle. It reminded her of a sandworm trying to burrow itself to the surface before—

  What was left of Ryan’s tongue burst free and swayed in the air. She backed away, gagging and, when the remains of his tongue fell back into his throat, she vomited.
<
br />   Then, Detective Constable Ryan Simmonds began to moan.

  And it echoed in the silence.

  1

  DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR Michael Yorke was now a married man, and he was desperately happy.

  Yet, as the confetti tumbled down around him, breaking the world up into a colourful kaleidoscope, he couldn’t help but think of his mother and his sister; two people he had loved and hated in equal measure, and so desperately missed. They would have enjoyed today. They deserved to be here today.

  Then, the cheers and a burst of intense sunlight brought him back to the moment, and he pulled Patricia Yorke close to his side. She looked striking in her unconventional wedding dress, a gorgeous emerald green, which worked perfectly with her red hair. He kissed her. A long kiss in public. Perfectly acceptable on your wedding day.

  His hand fell to her stomach and he let the back of his fingers brush against their unborn child. Seven months. Gender unknown.

  Best man, Detective Sergeant Jake Pettman, a big, hulking figure, cut them off. ‘Didn’t think you were getting away that easy did you, Mike?’ He emptied a bucket of confetti over Yorke’s head.

  ‘Good job that there isn’t much hair left for it to stick to!’ He heard Detective Inspector Emma Gardener say at his side. He also heard DI Mark Topham’s raucous laugh.

  The crowd cheered and Yorke kissed Patricia again.

  After dinner, Yorke delivered his well-rehearsed speech. He reeled off a few jokes that had been lifted from a website dedicated to first-time public speakers. Yorke was anything but a first-time public speaker. He’d proven very efficient at it, as his high rank would suggest, but then, this was a very different context. Making people laugh had never really been his forte. Encouragement, reassurance, and just plain, old-fashioned man management, were more his thing. He glanced at Patricia on numerous occasions who nodded him along. She’d heard the speech a multitude of times, and although he sounded wooden, at least he didn’t put a foot wrong. After praising Patricia for several minutes on her intelligence, beauty and drive to succeed in her role as a Divisional Surgeon, he said, ‘And now we get to the part of the speech which hasn’t been checked and edited by my beloved wife…’

  Cue laughter. Yorke wondered if it was real or alcohol-induced, and then wondered if this really mattered. Weddings were all about conventions, weren’t they?

  ‘I just wanted to say a hello to my mother, Paige, and my older sister, Danielle. Neither of whom could be here today but are forever in our thoughts.’ He paused, forcing back the tears. He held up his champagne glass. ‘So, join me in a toast to absent friends…’

  As they drank, Yorke noticed that Topham’s boyfriend, Neil, was sitting alone. He realised that he’d not seen Topham in a while. Yorke glanced over at Gardner, who was also watching Neil drink alone, clearly with the same curiosity as him.

  ‘So,’ Jake said, rising to his feet, ‘it seems Mike has treated us to quite a lavish event today which does beggar belief as I’ve never seen him open his wallet; in fact, I never even knew he had one until I saw it being fumigated by pest control for a moth infestation…’

  More laughter. Yorke joined in this time.

  Jake’s speech continued just as savagely as it’d begun. ‘And when he ran that marathon, we all marvelled at that wonderful time. Little did we realise that Mike was simply chasing the man in front of him because he had a Morrison’s 10% off voucher stuck to the sole of his shoe…’

  The laughter became more raucous. Yorke wondered why he had decided to make Jake his best man. He smiled at Patricia, and she smiled back, no doubt thinking the same thing.

  While the speech continued, he became more and more concerned about Topham’s absence. He glanced over at Gardner and saw that she was looking anxious too. She kept checking her phone under the table and clearly wasn’t paying attention to the speeches.

  ‘And then, finally, someone who could stomach the dominating workaholic emerged from the darkness…’

  Darkness being the appropriate word, thought Yorke. Yorke had met Patricia while she was poring over a murder victim.

  ‘Myself and Sheila, the light of my life,’ Jake looked down at his long-suffering wife, and they both shared a rare tender moment. ‘Have now got the perfect couple to spend an evening with. It wouldn’t be New Year without them anymore. I even get to see Mike with a couple of drinks in him – which is interesting. As I’m sure you’ll find out later … did you know we have a keg of Summer Lightning behind the bar?’

  ‘We know, Jake, it’s all you’ve been talking about all week!’ heckled one of the guests from the back.

  After reeling off Patricia’s qualities, of which they were many, Jake paused for a moment before turning back to Yorke.

  ‘And now it’s time to get serious for a moment. Through ten years of being friends, we’ve seen some tough times and, although Mike isn’t always the first one to crack a joke, he’s always the first one to put an arm around your shoulder and pick you up when you are down, and I’m sure it’s the same for many people around this table. I have never met a man so driven for justice, and with such a desire to make things right. There is no one else you would rather have on your side. He has a heart of gold … he keeps it in a safe under his bed, but he does have one.’

  Waiting for the laughter to subside, Jake paused to take a mouthful from his pint.

  ‘Finally, I would also like to raise a toast to our absent friends, Iain and Jessica Brookes, who will forever be in all of our hearts and will certainly be looking down on us at this point.’

  Yorke released a few tears. He felt Patricia’s grip on his hand tighten. He looked to the front table where their adopted son, Ewan Brookes, sat alongside Gardner and her family. He too had tears in his eyes but he offered Yorke and Patricia a smile despite the anguish. It’d only been seven months since he’d lost his parents in so savage a manner.

  What a brave boy, thought Yorke. What a brave, wonderful boy.

  ‘And remember,’ Jake continued, ‘Iron Mike will shake off his rugged, icy veneer this evening and take to the stage with his guitar with some of his University mates. What was the band called, Mike?’

  ‘Heist.’

  ‘Well, see Mike as you’ve never seen him before, and never will again, playing indie classics with Heist later this evening. So all that remains is to ask you to be upstanding for the toast, wishing them a life together filled with laughter and happiness, to the bride and groom…’

  As Yorke drank his champagne, he surveyed his guests again.

  Topham was still nowhere to be seen.

  DI Mark Topham parked on double-yellow lines, threw a police-business sign on the dashboard and exited his vehicle. At a steady pace, on a day topping thirty-five degrees, he sweated his way past an ambulance and the black major incidents van which was only just parking up. He looked at the ambulance again and acknowledged it was on standby for emergencies. DC Ryan Simmonds, the victim, had already been rushed to hospital almost an hour ago.

  With most of his tongue missing.

  At least that is what he’d learned from DC Collette Willows’ emergency call-to-arms. She’d apologised for hitting him up for early response on his day off. He’d told her not to worry about it; there was no such thing as a ‘day off’ when the victim was one of your own.

  He nodded at two uniforms. They nodded back, keeping their fingers hooked in their duty belts, looking official. They were trying to tame the restless wedding guests.

  Shirts hung loose from the men around him, while hats became crushed beyond recognition in clenched female fists. Under the hot sun, steam warped the air above the small crowd and reminded Topham of a summer-cooked audience at a festival gig.

  While weaving through the throbbing crowd, he stared up at the simple, stone church. Above the western door, in a niche, was a statue of St Agatha. A woman tortured by man, but also a woman who found comfort in her unwavering faith. Her face was sculpted to show the two contrasting emotions. It was
n’t the most popular church in Salisbury, and Topham wondered if it was down to Agatha’s conflicted expression and the sense of unease you felt in her presence.

  At the open door of St Agatha’s, he realised that he too had sweated excessively. He peeled off the jacket of the new black suit he’d purchased especially for Yorke’s wedding.

  As he crossed the threshold to confront whatever monstrosity had taken place this day, an old Shakespearian quotation memorised during his school days reared in his consciousness.

  For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

  Inside, he was surprised by the sudden drop in temperature. As a gay man, he’d not had much cause to go to church these last few years. He was sure, in this modern age, he would be more than welcome, but still, historically, to say that the church had never really been supportive of homosexuality would be an understatement. Even today, Yorke’s wedding had been conducted by a registrar in a cosy country club, and so Topham had no immediate experience of these stone, archaic dominions.

  PC Sean Tyler emerged from the shadows and immediately started scribbling his superior’s name in the logbook. ‘Hello sir, how’s DCI Yorke’s wedding?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t really know, Sean, as I’m here.’

  ‘Oh yeah … sorry.’

  ‘It started well, anyway,’ Topham said, taking the overshoes and bagged-up suit from Tyler’s outstretched hand. He covered himself to protect the fresh crime scene for the SOCOs who were waiting outside like hawks in the treetops.

  ‘Always cold in churches,’ Willows said, approaching.

  Topham nodded, thinking that he would just have to take her word on that.

  She patted his stomach. ‘Sir! Not up to your usual standard!’

  Topham, usually complimented on his enviable physique and good looks, glanced down at his waistline. His shirt buttons did, indeed, look strained. He didn’t appreciate the joke, but ran with it anyway. ‘Been too busy for sit-ups.’