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

  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

  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

  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 hist
ory.

  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 aga
in 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.