Killing Jericho: A Heart-Stopping Thriller (The Scott Jericho Crime Thrillers Book 1)

by Will Harker

  “And you’ve never heard of the Matthers family? Mother and son?”

  Just the slightest of pauses. “Never. Are they relevant to the case?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Another pause. Then, “Three days, Mr Jericho. Three days until the anniversary. And two murders to go. Godspeed.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  STOPPING OFF AT A McDonald’s on the way back from Lincoln, my phone pinged almost qsimultaneously with two messages: confirmation of our travel arrangements from Miss Barton and a report from Garris.

  Looked into Carmody background. Single, no criminal record, solicitor by trade. Born in Aberdeen. Adopted at age 3, grew up in Pembrokeshire. Both parents still alive. No obvious connection with Bradbury until he moved there 5 yrs ago.

  My vision of Hillstrom and Carmody as distant cousins growing up together evaporated. It was pretty clear that Alistair was not the Matthers child. That didn’t mean, of course, that he wasn’t involved in the murders, nor that he wasn’t Hillstrom’s lean-figured accomplice. The fact the mayor’s car had been reported stolen and burned out could simply be a double-bluff on their part. Having said that, could I really see the prim and proper Carmody tearing up the streets of Bradbury End? I read on:

  Also looked into Matthers family. Jonathan and Delia. Mother and son both survived the fire. They left Bradbury soon after and relocated to the States. As far as official records are concerned, this is where the trail goes cold. There’s no mention of them after 1985. Attaching a photo I found in the online archives of the local paper. Rather blurry.

  That’s all I have. But please, Scott, I don’t have to tell you not to rely solely on my research—use that intuition of yours, ask questions, stir things up. I get the feeling something is about to break. Keep me updated. Garris.

  “I think you’re right, Pete,” I murmured, and echoed those words of Campbell. “Three days to go.”

  Asking questions and stirring things up hadn’t got me very far in Lincoln. I’d reached that medieval city on a hill just after noon. Adya Mahal had been a student studying media at the university. Fifty quid from the treasury of Ralph Campbell into the grubby fist of her landlord had gained me access to Adya’s flat. There, a sterile, clueless void awaited me. All her belongings had been removed and the police report was accurate in its description of a forensically clean crime scene.

  Standing in her bedroom, I had glanced again at the picture from the file. The desecrated body of a young woman with her whole future before her. She had not been a human being to this killer; merely another piece in his great design.

  Before leaving, I’d asked questions of Adya’s neighbours, posing again as a journalist and pouring Campbell’s money into open pockets. No one had seen a thing on the night she died. Adya kept very much to herself. It was the smell that had finally alerted them. The out-of-order lift and the precipitous stairs up to her apartment had at least confirmed my belief that Campbell would have had no chance of climbing them.

  I pushed away my lukewarm Big Mac and took a sip of Coke. Then I clicked the attachment and opened the photograph Garris had found. The black and white image looked practically Victorian: a mother in matronly garb clutching the hand of her tiny, pale-faced son. They were standing on that wrap-around porch of the Matthers’ house, the shadows of the forest so dense only their faces stood out. Even then the features were little more than scratches in the gloom. Of course, it was possible that these people had nothing whatsoever to do with the case. Still, I was curious. What was their story? I’d have to ask Harry if the local historian Roebuck had returned from visiting his sister.

  With no Webster for company, it was a lonely drive back to Bradbury End. Before leaving for Lincoln, I’d dropped him off at his kennel outside my dad’s trailer. Amid the organised chaos of building up, I was able to pass through the fair pretty much unnoticed. I hadn’t seen my father or Sal and Jodie, though I did glimpse Zac carrying bundles of rider sacks over to the helter-skelter. I’d remembered that he had been asking to speak to me and I almost went across to say hello. The only thing that held me back was the idea that, if I continued to keep my distance, he’d eventually get over this stupid crush. The kid was better off without me.

  Then why isn’t Harry? said that treacherous voice inside my head.

  It asked the question again now.

  I turned up the radio, shut out the voice, and drove on.

  Back to the case, it was possible of course that the murderer was someone I hadn’t considered or even encountered yet. With serial killers that was often the way of it, the eventual discovery of the culprit was more often down to random luck than brilliant deduction. Ted Bundy had been caught because he was pulled over by a traffic cop who then found his murder kit in the boot of his Volkswagen Beetle; the Yorkshire Ripper was nabbed by a probationary constable who ran a random check on his phoney licence plates. Up to that point, neither man had loomed all that large in the police investigations.

  Yet something niggled. A sense that, if I hadn’t yet met the killer, clues to his identity were already in my hands. And not only that. I felt certain a connection between the victims had also been hinted at. Some words spoken to me at the very beginning of the investigation. The idea dogged me all the way back to Bradbury, though, in the end, I had to admit defeat.

  Pulling into Harry’s drive, I texted Garris back, thanking him and hoping things were as good as they could be with Harriet. Then I stopped off at the trailer and packed an overnight bag. I swallowed a couple of benzos as I threw the packet into my toiletry bag (just the prescriptions ones, in case customs decided to take a look). They ought to stave off the shakes until tomorrow morning. I checked my watch: 6:35. Being midsummer, it was light outside and probably still would be when we reached the airport around nine.

  Bag in hand, I knocked at Harry’s door. There was no answer but the handle turned at my touch and I stepped into the hall. I was about to call out when I heard his voice speaking from the lounge.

  “No, he isn’t back yet… Yes, I understand, we’ve talked about this and I agreed, didn’t I…? I’d just like to know what’s going on with…”

  I walked softly towards the open doorway. Harry sat hunched on the sofa, his back to me, the phone pressed to his ear. He nodded twice; tense, sharp movements.

  “Yes, I think he bought it in the end… Of course. I’ll speak to you when we’re back. Goodbye.”

  He cancelled the call and threw the phone to the far side of the sofa. When I spoke his name, he almost jumped out of his skin.

  “Jesus, Scott! How…” He stared at me over the sofa back. “How long have you been standing there?”

  I managed a carefree shrug. “Not long. Who was that?”

  His gaze darted to the phone and he laughed. It sounded a little strident, I thought.

  “Val. From work. We’ve been negotiating how many favours I owe her for covering my shifts. I fear the cost in cupcakes alone is going to drive me into the poorhouse.”

  His smile seemed natural enough. I smiled back and replayed the snatches I’d overheard in my head. Had that sounded like a conversation with the vivacious young woman I’d met at the library? There had been a stiffness to Harry’s tone, a strain, but perhaps Val hadn’t appreciated his last-minute request to cover for him. I dumped my bag at the door and went to sit on the sofa.

  “Who bought what?” I asked.

  Did he stiffen a little?

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said to Val, ‘I think he bought it in the end.’”

  “Oh. That…” He got up and went through to the open-plan kitchen, rooting around in the fridge for ingredients. “Yes, well, as part of the branch closure we’ve been encouraged by the council to try to sell off some of the furniture. I was just telling her that one of the local businesses had bought all the desks from the study area.”

  “Must be a sad day,” I said.
“How will the closure affect your work?”

  “As I told you, I’m on a kind of rotating schedule. I’ll still have plenty to do at the other branches I’m assigned to. It’ll be librarians like Val who’ll be made redundant. But I guess the Hillstroms and Carmodys of this world will come for us all in the end. By the way, I saw a few posters going up on my walk home.”

  “For the fair?”

  He shook his head. “Those have been up for ages. These were for the anti-mosque rally. It’s all happening in the town centre the day after tomorrow. I hate to say it, but I think they’ll get quite a decent turnout.” He laid his hands flat on the countertop. “When did we become so hateful, Scott?”

  I went over, collected up the vegetables and replaced them in the fridge. “Go and pack your bag. We’ll grab some food in town before we head to the airport.”

  His smile came a little easier. “You never told me where we’re going.”

  “You always liked surprises,” I said.

  When he left, I spent a few minutes staring at that phone lying on the sofa cushions. Even if the eternally security-unconscious Harry had used password protection, I knew I could probably hack it by the time he got back. The question was, did I want to? The idea that he could walk in and find me checking his call log was pretty much decisive. Whatever connection we were making was still very much in its infancy. The secrets of our past might in themselves be enough to destroy it before any new relationship even got started. I didn’t need to jeopardise things further on the basis of some paranoid hunch. And anyway, his explanation of the call had been reasonable.

  That’s what I told myself.

  It was what I wanted to believe.

  In the end, that was just another of my mistakes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  LOCATED AT THE EDGE of town, The Green Man was practically empty. I’d steered Harry away from his suggestion of the Inn on the Heath because I knew that, after a day building up, the nearest pub would be packed to the rafters with Travellers. Don’t get me wrong, in their cups you could want for no better company than showpeople. Their stories will keep you on the edge of your seat, their jokes will have you howling; I just wasn’t ready for Haz to encounter them en masse. For a joskin, it can be an overwhelming experience.

  The conversation since leaving the bungalow had been a little stilted, but by the time our food arrived we were in full flow, reminiscing freely about our time in Oxford. We danced around those final days leading up to his father’s death, but the rest of it seemed fair game. The films we’d loved, the books we’d swapped, all our small triumphs and catastrophes and in-jokes were recalled and toasted. That strange phone call—if it had been strange—was forgotten.

  He insisted I taste some of his shepherd’s pie and, after agreeing it had been microwaved to within an inch of its life, I grinned.

  “He who would not the shepherd’s pie praise.”

  Harry smiled. “Quem pastores laudavere. You remember?”

  “How could forget? The first words I ever heard out of your mouth. Sweet and soulful and absolutely incomprehensible.” He laughed and I looked around the pub. “Do you fancy giving me a reprise?”

  “What?” He hiccupped. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Come on, I haven’t heard you sing in years.”

  “Nuh-ah.” He took a mouthful of wine. “I don’t do requests. Anyway, it’s bad luck to sing Christmas carols in the summer.”

  “Who says?”

  “An ancient law known only to the sacred order of carollers: if thou shalt let a festive hymn pass thy lips out of season then thou inviteth great evil into thy presence.”

  “Bullshit.” I laughed.

  “Absolutely true!” Harry said. “And by the way, we don’t appreciate outsiders mocking our traditions. Carollers are a proud people.”

  I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “But could my favourite caroller bend the rules, just for me?”

  He looked daggers for a second. Then, composing himself a little theatrically, he began to sing. Just the lightest, faintest sound, hardly above a whisper, and I was immediately transported back to The Eagle and Child, that beautiful face rhapsodic in the firelight. After a couple of lines, he shook his head and started to apologise, saying he was rusty and that he hadn’t sung the hymn in years. I was about to tell him that false modesty was very Harry Moorhouse when the pub door swung open and Lenny Kerrigan walked in.

  I stood up.

  “You have no idea what this is all about, do you? The great fucking detective and you can’t see what’s staring you in the face.”

  His words from the wood rang in my head.

  “You’re in for a big surprise, Jericho. One day soon you’ll wake up and realise just how well I’ve played you…”

  Kerrigan hadn’t come alone. A dozen or so of his Knights of St George swarmed in behind him. I recognised a couple from our early interviews with the hate group. Beer-gutted, bleary-eyed steroid abusers, they had spent half their lives swilling police station coffee and muttering ‘no comment’ into our tape recorders. What they were doing here in Bradbury End seemed obvious, but still, Kerrigan’s presence reawakened all my old suspicions about his possible connection with the case.

  They soon colonised the bar and started bellowing at the landlord.

  “We just come through your town,” said a man I recognised as Mickey ‘Fatboy’ Wallace (Kerrigan’s deputy in all but name, we’d once arrested him on suspicion of daubing ‘Heil Hitler’ in pig’s blood on the gates of the local synagogue). “Do you know you’ve got fucking pikeys camped out on your village green? Proper stinking up the place and they’ve only been there two minutes.”

  “Now, now, Mickster,” Kerrigan laughed, patting his companion’s glistening shaved pate. “We ain’t here for the gypos. Not this time. It’s the fucking ragheads we’re after, right boys?” A chorus of approval. “You heard about this rally on Friday, Innkeep? Hope we can count on your support. Some friends of ours who live round this way invited us over and, I gotta say, it’s a beautiful spot. If you wanna keep it that way—good and Christian and pure—I suggest you gather a few mates together and join us on the frontline.”

  When I stepped towards them Harry caught my wrist. “Scott?”

  “It’s him,” I muttered.

  His gaze cut between us. “You mean the man who… What’s he doing here?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  “Scott, don’t–”

  But I was already halfway to the bar.

  Grabbing one of the Neanderthals by the shoulder and pulling him aside, I stepped into the herd. The knuckle-dragger behind me started to shout something. Kerrigan spun around on his stool and, seeing me, silenced his follower with a look. That shit-eating grin that had earned him his most prominent scar, spread like oil across his face.

  “Well, look who it isn’t. Detective Sergeant Scott Jericho, disgraced. No, no, give him some room to breathe, lads. He likes a few strong boys about him, but we don’t want to get old Scotty here too excited, do we? He might start dribbling on the carpet.”

  I cut right to the chase. “How did you find me, Kerrigan?”

  “See, this is your problem, Scotty.” He drummed his palms on the bar while the landlord looked on with a nervous smile. “You think the whole world revolves around you. Now, if I wanted to find you, it wouldn’t have been all that difficult, would it? I mean, there’s ten thousand fucking posters all over this dump with your name on every one of ’em.” This clearly tickled the funny bones of the Knights of St George. I received a few “friendly” slaps on the back. “But like I was saying to my mate, the Innkeep here, we’re gathered to stop these ragheads opening up their heathen temple. Do you know how many–?”

  “What I know is how it went down in that forest between us just the other day,” I said. “If you’re back for more of the same, let’s cut the chat and step outside right now.�
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  The laughter stopped like a tap being turned off. I could actually see the landlord’s Adam’s apple bob as he gulped. Part of me knew that this was mad—only this morning, I’d been lucky to avoid an assault charge that would have seen me back in prison—but that grin. That fucking grin. And there, on the other side of the pool table, three little figures with burned faces watched me.

  “You said that you were playing me somehow,” I grunted. “So what are you really doing here?”

  Kerrigan licked his lips and slid off the stool. Back in the forest, he’d cowered but here he had strength in numbers. He sidled over and prodded me in the chest.

  “Guess.”

  I looked down at the back of his hand—at the swastika tattoo—and whatever I was going to say died on my lips. I heard again the mad ranting of Miss Debney, “He did this he did this he did this.” To ease his arthritis if Hillstrom was the killer, or perhaps to hide an identifying mark? Kerrigan was not the subtle mind behind these murders, I knew that, but as a paid accomplice? Something else that I’d seen in the forest near the diner now made me grasp his forearm.

  “That’s just about the worst knockoff Rolex I’ve ever seen,” I said. “Don’t tell me you’ve run through all my money already? And that Beemer you were driving the other day–”

  He pulled his arm away, his face flaming. For a moment I wondered if his Knights might try to defend the commander but they all just stood there, drinking in the drama.

  “You owe me for those fucking tyres,” he spat.

  “Do I? Or do I owe the company you lease it from? Are you in trouble, Lenny? In need of a bit of ready cash maybe? Is someone paying you to do their dirty work?”

  He glanced around the group and did his best to snatch back a little dignity. “Oh, but have I got a surprise in store for you, Detective Sergeant. Think you’re clever, don’t you? But you won’t see this one coming.”

  “Scott, come away.”