He took another bite, Jericho raised his eyebrows indicating for him to continue.
‘Internet porn.’
‘You recognised her from internet porn?’ said Jericho.
‘Yes.’
‘You’d watched the porn, and she was in the porn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice. That must have been life-affirming for you both.’
‘She’d done this amateur, Slovenian gangbang video. Like, her and thirty blokes.’
Jericho stared at Haynes across the short distance of the table.
‘Then finally she comes and sits down and speaks to me. We quickly get to the point where she admits to having been in that video–’
‘And you admit to having watched it?’
‘Well, yes, that...’ Haynes laughed. ‘She was like, please don’t tell anyone. I’ve been here five years and no one’s ever recognised me before.’
‘So not only do you watch Slovenian gangbang videos, you’re the only one?’
Haynes laughed again.
‘So, we had a chat. You know, about what it’s like to have sex with thirty blokes at once.’
Jericho could feel his interest in the conversation beginning to wane. He sometimes wondered if he alone never watched people having sex on the Internet.
‘And?’
‘She said she got bored.’
Jericho nodded. ‘I guess you would.’
‘And to be honest, you can kind of see it in the video.’
Jericho didn’t really know how else to contribute to the conversation, which wasn’t a first for him, regardless of the subject matter. Haynes stared wistfully off to the side.
‘That’s why I’d remembered her,’ he said. ‘There was something sad about it. It had, I don’t know, a kind of romantic melancholy.’
Jericho caught his eye, while he chewed his salad.
‘You mean, like Jane Austen?’
‘Something like that,’ said Haynes, smiling.
‘Can we talk about something else now?’
3
The town of Grindelwald in the Swiss Alps was no less warm than the small city of Wells. The previous day the clouds had been low, obscuring the town, cutting visibility to less than a hundred yards. That morning, however, had dawned bright and sunny, and now there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The gondolas carrying tourists up into the mountains were full, the streets of the town were crowded.
It didn’t seem that long since Ian Connolly had looked upon the Eiger, being a regular visitor here, but he’d needed to get away from home much earlier than he’d expected. A trip to the Alps was so much more interesting than spending another two weeks back at home, listening to his father introduce him to everyone in the village. He realised, after listening to Carter, that it was better to have his family proud than dismissive, but it would have been easier if they could have stopped some way short of overbearing.
His mum had cried, as ever, when he’d announced that he had to leave two weeks early. He’d told them that an opportunity had arisen to join an American sponsored climb of the north face of the Eiger. There was money involved, there was a chance at some great exposure. It would have been mad to say no.
And so he had left, after one more big meal to allow people the opportunity to speak to the conquering mountaineer, and one more photoshoot, organised by his father, for the local newspaper.
He’d only been in Switzerland two days – having travelled from London by train – and he hadn’t decided yet what he would do with his time. Drinking and sex were certainly on the list, and he’d already made a promising start, but he thought he would take a nose around the climbing community, see what was happening, then try to link up with anything interesting that came up.
He was certainly an accomplished enough climber to tackle anything available in the area, but usually that wouldn’t be enough. Now, however, he had money to spend and climbing expeditions were always interested in money.
There had been no new money in the past few months, not since Kangchenjunga had finished, but now he didn’t need to worry about the future. The future would be arriving soon, and it would be arriving in a first class train and stopping at his station. Those savings he’d been hoarding for the past ten years had become irrelevant. They had suddenly become spending money.
As it happened, he was right. The savings were irrelevant.
The first night had been good. Straight off. Managed to get the hotel receptionist into bed. She’d been fantastic, and not some annoying attachment who would presume that he’d want to spend every night of his stay with her. A few drinks, great sex, and then she’d left his room.
Last night had been even better. He’d managed to get an invite to a party in a chalet further up the mountain. More alcohol, cocaine – not something he usually cared for, but it was just enough to have an effect, not enough to mess too much with his head – more sex. Early on, with a British girl who spent the entire night putting herself around, and then at the end of the night with a stick thin, flat-chested, short-haired German, who had fucked him spectacularly for well over an hour.
Tonight, he thought, would be a night off. He still hurt. Not that it hadn’t been worth it.
If the weather had been bad again he had intended spending the day in bed, but the sun had lured him out. He was walking up the hill, the stiffness of the night before slowly easing, looking forward to a late lunch in one of the high cafés. He’d probably walk back down the hill at the end of the afternoon, but it wasn’t out of the question that he’d take the gondola with the Chinese tourists.
That night he’d start making enquiries to see if there was anything worthwhile piggybacking in the area. Didn’t have to be the Eiger, didn’t have to be based in Grindelwald.
He was alone on a short stretch of straight road. A car had just gone past half a minute earlier. A couple had walked by him on the way down a short time previously, smiling at him as they went. He felt that he’d got more of a smile from the girl. I could have her, he’d thought.
Maybe he would. What was that guy going to do about it?
When he fell, there was no one there to see him. Not that they could have done anything for him if there had been.
Sniper bullet in the head, top of the skull exploded, instantly dead. Connolly fell where he stood. His head banged off the tarmac, blood began to run downhill. The noise of the shot echoed around the town, travelling across the valley.
Everyone heard it. No one saw a thing.
4
Jericho knocked and entered Superintendent Dylan’s office. She glanced up as he came in, then she returned to what she was doing – scribbling a quick note inside a file – and indicated the chair.
‘Sit down, I won’t be long.’
Jericho rarely sat down in her office, and if he did, it would likely only be after she’d asked him several times. He turned his back and stood at the window, looking out on the warm day. Her office looked onto the Glastonbury Road, the same as his; this office benefited from air conditioning, however.
On a day like this, it felt glorious just walking in here, the temperature set at a cool eighteen degrees. Usually he couldn’t get out of her office quickly enough, but today he wondered if he might try and drag the conversation out as long as possible.
He turned and looked at her, her head still lowered over her desk. She was humming. He’d never heard her humming before. Usually their conversations were either stilted and uncomfortable, or downright angry and unpleasant.
‘What’s that?’ he said.
She looked up, surprised, then glanced down at her report.
‘I’d don’t think it’s really anyth–’
‘No, the tune.’
She paused, seemed to have to think about it.
‘All Things Must Pass,’ she said.
He looked blank.
‘George Harrison.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘Wonderful record.’
‘Been a whi
le since I heard it.’
She held his gaze for a moment, glanced back down at the folder, then closed it. She would regularly get into some sort of absurd testosterone-fuelled battle of wills trying to get Jericho to sit down, but today she really wasn’t in the mood. She got to her feet, round the desk, and stood beside him looking out on the sunlit afternoon.
At first glance she could count seven builders across the road with their tops off.
‘I should have had the air con installed in the open plan, not in my office, shouldn’t I?’ she said. ‘It would have cost more, which is why it didn’t happen, but even so...’
Jericho wasn’t sure what to say. He’d caught her humming, and now she was asking slightly remorseful rhetorical questions. Observing standard protocol, he elected to say nothing.
‘Well, it will be up to someone else to maybe look at changing things.’
‘Sorry?’
She turned, gave him a smile, looked back out of the window.
‘How did it go in Bristol? I’ve sat on a few of these things. Very dependent on the quality of the panel, I have to admit.’
‘It was hard to discern the quality of the panel,’ answered Jericho. ‘Or, indeed, if it had any at all.’
She smiled.
‘Ultimately, I don’t think it’ll really matter. We all know you had nothing to do with the deaths, and they can hardly bust you for being in receipt of someone’s will, can they?’
He glanced at her, wondering what was coming. She hadn’t spoken to him often in the previous few months, and she had surprised him somewhat by not pursuing any agenda against him since the Britain’s Got Justice disaster. Even so, her words were now bordering on sympathetic, which was peculiar. Of course, she had more or less just confirmed that she was leaving.
‘We’re both being moved on, Robert,’ she said.
‘Both?’
‘Yes. Too early for an announcement to the station, but hopefully I can make it by the end of next week.’
She continued to look out of the window as she talked, her right hand moving in rhythm with the words, as though conducting herself.
‘You know it’s been coming. Each area has to find savings of close to thirty per cent this year. Wells is perfect for it, it’s obvious. We don’t need a superintendent here. We don’t need a detective chief inspector. You and I? We’re an anomaly. We’re dinosaurs, a pair of diplodocuses living in a small garden.’
Jericho was following her gaze out of the window, but he caught her eye as she made the dinosaur analogy.
‘You know what I mean. Look, the station’s getting an overhaul. I’m out, you’re out. There will be an inspector put in charge, and Detective Sergeant Haynes will stay on to lead the investigative branch. He’s up to that, don’t you think?’
‘More than ready,’ said Jericho. ‘It’ll be good for him.’
‘Yes, it will. That replacement for Sergeant Light we’ve been waiting for won’t be coming but, as you know, Ed Loovens passed his sergeant’s exam, so we’re hoping he’ll stay on. His constable position will be lost, and that’s it.’
‘No redundancies or forced transfers?’
‘Just you and me,’ she said, her eyes dropping to look down into the carpark.
Here’s the rub, thought Jericho. Is the end going to come like this? So quickly? So unexpectedly? No wonder she was humming All Things Must Pass.
‘And what’s it to be?’
‘I’m off to Bristol,’ she said. ‘Would have preferred Bath, obviously, but what can you do? You... well, you don’t need to worry. There’s still a job for you – somewhere – if you want it. You’ll need to apply, of course. Then again, I’ve done what I can and there’s a package on the table, if you want to walk away. It’d be good for you. Set you up well. You could go off and do what you want.’
She laughed, another more exaggerated movement of the right hand.
‘God, you know what this organisation is like. I’m sure they’d pay you off, and then hire you back for more money to do some consultancy work. You can see what’s there and make a call.’
‘And if I don’t want to leave?’
‘You’ll need to apply for posts in other stations, same as everyone else. Likely you’ll go on gardening leave until something comes up.’
Jericho stared straight ahead, the countryside around Wells stretching away from him, fields and thick trees, the small hills just beyond the town. If he wanted to stay in the police, he would have to leave this city. He’d been here seven years, more or less. Was that what he wanted now?
Not for a moment. Perhaps he could stay in Wells and commute to Bath or Taunton or Bristol every day. Weston even.
‘So this is me getting my notice?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘A month. Could have been less, but I figured you’d want to stay on and that gardening leave wouldn’t really suit you. I wanted to give you a few weeks to try to fix up something else.’
‘Thanks,’ he said automatically, even though he rarely thanked her for anything and was forever suspicious of her motives.
‘You will want to stay on?’ she asked.
Jericho put his hands in his pockets. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie still neatly done to the collar.
Maybe he could ask for a demotion, lose the detective badge and be the inspector. The thought came and went more quickly, almost, than it was possible to have it in the first place, leaving behind a little smile.
Whatever he was going to do next, he certainly wasn’t going to be in charge of a station. No one would think that a good idea.
‘I’ll think about it and let you know,’ he said.
‘I’ll e-mail you details of the redundancy package.’
He was going to tell her not to bother, as he wouldn’t look at it, but stopped himself. Why not look at it?
‘OK, thanks.’
‘Right, Robert, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. And, for the moment, please don’t say anything to anyone. I just wanted to give you the heads up, as you were the only one directly affected.’
He didn’t move immediately. Perhaps he was clinging on to the moment when his police career ended. Perhaps he was pleasantly surprised to be in this room and not find his hate curled in an angry, snarling ball in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps it was just cool, and he knew the moment he stepped out the door, he was going to melt in the heat.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
He lowered his eyes for a moment, then glanced at her.
‘Thanks, Sarah,’ he said.
He turned and left the room, stepping out into the incinerator, the death knell on his career having been sounded.
*
Morlock had taken the train from Grindelwald to Interlaken, from Interlaken to Geneva. In Geneva he had caught the easyJet flight to Bristol. He sat down in window seat 6A and was asleep before the plane took off. He woke up as it was taxiing to a standstill.
Flights were wasted time for men like him. His work took a lot of preparation, planning down to the minutest detail. It was not the kind of work, however, that you did sitting on a plane next to a non-combatant.
In Morlock’s world, virtually everyone was a non-combatant. There was Develin, who gave him his orders, there were the people he had to kill, and there was Morlock himself. Everyone else fitted into the non-combatant role. It was the most basic and sensible rule, however, to make sure that he remained utterly anonymous, even to those unlikely to have any interest in what he did for a living.
He arrived in Bristol at six thirty-three in the evening, the weather much warmer than he’d been expecting. He had a job to do the following morning, and then he was due to meet with Develin in the afternoon in the centre of London. Beyond that, his diary was currently empty, although that was nothing new.
He was booked into the Premier Inn in Glastonbury, having established that there would be no manned desk in the middle of the night, therefore all
owing him to leave the premises, unseen, at four and return before six. If, sometime later, someone clocked his movement on CCTV footage, it would be of little concern. The man who was staying overnight at the Glastonbury Premier Inn would no longer exist.
5
Jericho worked until after seven, the first day of a month of putting things in order. He rarely looked at his inbox, invariably passing paperwork onto Haynes or one of the constables. However, there was enough of it that he had never touched for there to be an amount of work outstanding. None of it, he was pleased to note as he slowly went through it, of any importance whatsoever.
Still, he thought, it wouldn’t be fair on Haynes to suddenly find himself the senior detective in the city with all this trivial crap to take on. And so, for the first time that Haynes could recall, he walked into Jericho’s office late in the working day only to find his chief inspector hunched over his computer, seemingly reading e-mails.
‘Can I take a selfie?’ said Haynes.
Jericho looked round. He’d been at this for a few hours and, naturally, the life was being sucked from him.
‘What?’
‘You’re reading e-mails. It’s like the eighth wonder of the world. Thought I could get a picture with you in the background.’
‘You’re hilarious, Sergeant.’
Haynes smiled, pulled up the seat the other side of Jericho’s desk.
‘So, really, sir, what’s got into you? The guys said you’ve been on your computer for, like, four hours or something.’
Jericho indicated the screen, then shook his head, straightened his shoulders and sat back.
‘Not much else going on, thought I’d try to get on top of this stuff.’
‘Wow. Who are you and what have you done wi–’
‘Enough.’
Haynes laughed. Top button undone, tie loose, no jacket. No one was wearing a jacket.
‘Just about to hit the road. Anything else need doing?’
Jericho stared across the desk. Had been thinking about something while he worked his way through the mindless junk of his inbox. The thing he should have shown to Haynes seven months earlier, while he lay in hospital.
We Are Death Page 2
