As he walked back down the stairs he got that feeling again. Oddly, he hadn’t done so when he’d walked into the house a few minutes previously. Now he paused halfway down the staircase, trying to establish what it was.
Someone was here. Someone was in the house. But it hadn’t felt like that earlier. Why now? Had they come in through the wide-open downstairs window? He stood still, in complete silence bar the noise of the few cars on the Shepton Road, trying to sense what was happening in the house.
The hairs stood up slowly on the back of his neck.
‘This is stupid,’ he muttered.
Back to the ground floor, into the kitchen, lights on.
What he saw didn’t make sense. An optical illusion. Like staring at an Ames trapezoid window or Penrose steps.
What does your brain do when faced with something that it cannot understand?
It creates its own reality. Blocks it out. Doesn’t think about it. Can’t think about it.
Everything was so clear-cut in Jericho’s world. He didn’t know what to do with something that made no sense.
His visitor was sitting at the table, wearing an old jumper, legs hidden beneath the table, hands clasped together on top of it. The head was slightly lowered, eyes open, but Jericho couldn’t make out what they were saying. Were the eyes speaking, or were those words coming from the lips?
Nothing made sense. The sound, the words, his presence in front of him at the table.
Jericho swallowed. Was that fear? Fear, somewhere tucked inside his head? When was the last time he’d been afraid of anything?
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
The doorbell rang. Jericho jumped at the sound, turned round, looking at the front door. It was wooden with no glass panel, so he was unable to see who was standing there.
No one came to his door at this time of night. Suddenly, even the doorbell ringing didn’t make any sense, it seemed to add to the overall feeling of confusion. Something else to have his heart racing, his mouth dry, the peculiar twist of his stomach.
He turned back to the kitchen, and the kitchen looked back at him.
There was no one there. There was no one sitting at the table. Jericho stood still for a moment, trying to recover the sense of what had been there, the sense he’d felt walking down the stairs.
It was gone, although the hairs still stood on the back of his neck.
The doorbell rang again, another small shock fizzed through his body, then he gave himself one of his regular, two-second tellings-off, steeled himself and walked to the front door. Didn’t bother looking through the peep-hole. Opened the door to find Haynes, who had left the station forty-five minutes previously.
‘Sergeant,’ said Jericho.
‘You all right?’ asked Haynes. ‘You look... I don’t know, you just don’t look all right.’
‘Seeing ghosts,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
As he asked the question, he noticed that Haynes was holding something in his right hand, which he then lifted and showed to Jericho. A tarot card with the image of Death.
‘You found something interesting on it?’ asked Jericho.
‘It’s not that,’ said Haynes. ‘This is a new one. It was waiting for me at the house.’
12
Jericho had made a pot of tea, and they were sitting, a mug each, at the kitchen table, looking at the two tarot cards. The previous moment in the kitchen, the one that didn’t make sense, had been pushed out of his head. Forgotten. Placed in a compartment and relegated to the back of the cupboard.
The two cards were quite different, which Jericho hadn’t immediately realised when glancing at the second one in Haynes’s hand. While the first showed Death riding on his horse, the legion of the dead littered on the ground around him and stretching far into the distance, this one showed Death riding past a forest, and in the trees behind were five bodies hung by the neck. Five men. The heads of two of them were slumped forward, already dead. The faces of the other three were contorted in pain, their heads depicted frantically thrashing, desperately fighting for breath and relief from the crushing agony.
‘Five hanged men,’ said Jericho.
‘At least it implies that the other three are still alive.’
Jericho looked up at Haynes.
‘It wasn’t delivered by Royal Mail? If it was put–’
‘It had been placed beneath my door. Unmarked envelope.’
‘Could have been done by Carter’s killer.’
‘Possibly. But then, he would have had to hang around Wells long enough to make sure I was out the house.’
‘He presumably knew you were going to get called into work early. Maybe he was watching.’
Jericho took some tea, slurping, then shook his head.
‘Wilful blindness, that’s what we have here,’ he said. ‘I knew they were coming back, they had to be. They didn’t do all that shit last winter for nothing. Yes, it’s a game, it’s all a bloody game, but these people... everything has a reason. They were always coming back, and what have I been doing for the last seven months? Break-ins and fights on the rec and God knows how long on that damned stupid rape allegation against the old bastard up in Horrington. Jesus...’
He stood up and walked away from the table. Stood over the fireplace, looked down into the cold hearth. The hearth he hadn’t cleaned out since the fire had last been lit, three months previously.
‘And what were you going to be investigating, sir? They were invisible. They’ve been invisible all this time.’
‘They killed a lot of people. They got Durrant out of jail...’
At the very mention of the name the fear started to return. The hairs on the back of his neck. The clawing at the pit of his stomach. He waved a hand to get rid of the thought.
‘They somehow got a rich vineyard owner to commit suicide. It’s not like there weren’t about fifteen different ways we could have started the investigation. But I couldn’t face it, I didn’t want to face it, and neither did anyone else. It was like... a collective thing, a great collective, let’s not talk about it. It’s like your teenage daughter getting pregnant and sending her off to live with her aunt in Scotland until the baby’s born, then when she comes back pretending the baby’s your wife’s. Complete fucking denial.’
He turned and looked at Haynes.
‘No one wants to go there. Not Dylan, not anyone higher up. And what did I bring to the table? Supine acceptance. Jesus... No wonder they’re letting me go. Don’t deserve to be in this bloody job.’
‘They’re not letting you go, sir.’
‘Stuart, they’re letting me go,’ said Jericho, the agitation starting to leave his voice. ‘Yes, I can apply for jobs, but they already sorted Dylan out, didn’t they? Dylan wasn’t applying for any jobs. But me? A senior Detective Chief Inspector? Up against men and women fifteen years younger. No, I’m not getting any jobs. We all know that damned game show was a total disaster, for everyone, not just those idiots who died... career-wise, it killed me off. They would have loved for me not to come back, you know that. No, this is it, I’m afraid. This is it...’
He walked away from the fireplace, hands in his pockets.
‘Well, if it is,’ said Haynes, ‘and I’m not so sure, you’ve got one last interesting case to tackle.’
Jericho stopped pacing, turned, looked at Haynes, then lowered his eyes. He had never had control during that last time he’d come against them. They had controlled events every step of the way. Nevertheless, that he’d personally tracked down Durrant had been his own doing, he was sure of that. And that point, when he was working and figuring things out for himself, was the only time he’d really been engaged, really felt he had any semblance of direction, even if that feeling had been something of an illusion.
‘I don’t particularly like the odds,’ said Jericho, ‘but you’re right. They may be faceless, all-powerful and completely invisible, but we need to give them a go. That is, if we’re still on the case this time tomorro
w.’
‘We’ve got the cards,’ said Haynes.
Jericho walked back over to the table, took another drink of tea, and looked at the cards again as he placed the mug back down.
‘I don’t like the fact that this new one has been sent to you.’
‘It’s cool.’
‘No, it isn’t. What happened to me in January wasn’t cool. I don’t want it happening to you.’
‘I...’ began Haynes. Then he smiled. ‘I won’t say it. You’re right, I’ll try to be careful. Watch my back.’
‘You might want to watch your sides and front as well.’
They shared a grim smile, then Jericho pulled the seat out and sat back down.
‘Have you done the thing you were going to do with the iPad?’ he asked.
‘Haven’t had a chance. Anyway, for best results I’ll need to scan it in, not take a photo with the iPad. Should have done it at work. My own scanner’s bust. I’ll try to get in in the morning, then I can e-mail it to myself and look at them on the train up to London.’
Jericho nodded, looking back at the cards.
‘Five hanged men. Are we to assume it refers to the five climbers, or is it referencing the five hooks hanging in Durrant’s back room? Or, indeed, something completely different?’
Knowing the questions were entirely rhetorical, as they could not possibly have any idea at this stage, Haynes did not answer. Despite the likelihood of the five men correlating to the members of the Kangchenjunga expedition, the thought that he himself might be one of them had not escaped him.
They were back, of that there was no question. It was just a question of who they were.
*
Morlock hated opulence. Of course, he embraced it too. He was staying at Claridge’s, under the name Thom Carlton. That evening he had three prostitutes to his suite. No drugs, no alcohol. Not tonight. He ate lightly cooked vegetables and rice noodles, drank spring water and green tea, had finished eating for the day by six o’clock, and the prostitutes arrived at seven-thirty.
He did not talk to them. They got the sense, as they discussed later, that he might be one of the dangerous ones. Good looking and rich, it was odd from the start that he would have to pay for anything. Usually things, women included, came free to such men.
But Thom Carlton paid well, and they allowed themselves the false sense of security with numbers on their side. Fortunately for them, Morlock was interested in nothing other than sex and was happy to let them walk out the door. Morlock lasted three hours, and the women left, well compensated, shortly afterwards.
Thom Carlton was booked into the hotel for three nights, but he intended to leave, having paid the bill, the following morning. He was the ghost who had slipped into the country under one name, hired a car under another and was staying at the hotel under a third, murdering Evan Carter along the way, and no one had the slightest idea who or where he was.
Morlock did not cover his tracks. Morlock did not make tracks in the first place.
13
Jericho slept uneasily, frequently waking and staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast by the moon. Kangchenjunga filled his thoughts in a way in which it hadn’t done for many years. He’d never forgotten, but he had certainly stopped thinking about it. Didn’t want to think about it. Yet now, unsurprisingly, it was back, swept in on the same tide as so many other strange occurrences.
The window was open, and he found himself cold at some point, with the duvet consigned to the floor and sleeping beneath a sheet. It seemed like a while since he’d been cold. He retrieved the duvet and slept better thereafter.
Awake at five thirty, he decided to go for a walk before getting ready for work. Into town, up the back way towards the moat and then away from the city across the fields, heading towards Dulcote.
He stopped in the middle of the second field and looked back, as morning swept over the land, bright and sunny. The sky was clear, set for another warm day, but at least there was an early morning coolness in the air which hadn’t been there for the past few days.
He was leaving his post in a month, and yet it felt too early to be thinking about leaving, to be applying for other jobs or making the positive decision not to. He genuinely believed what he’d said to Haynes, that they didn’t want him, that he wouldn’t get another job. That he’d be humiliating himself by even trying. They surely expected him to understand and play the game. And yet, it was not his practice to walk away from anything. If they wanted to get rid of him, then he should make them actually do it. At the very least, milk them for gardening leave as long as possible.
But that wasn’t his way either.
He looked at his watch. Plenty of work to do, for once, but he decided to take the rest of the walk round the path and back up over the top road, rather than turning back. He could afford to be a little later than normal.
*
Dylan’s door was closed as usual. For the first time in several days, Jericho was not looking forward to stepping into the air conditioning. It wasn’t going to be too cold for him, he just didn’t need the relief it had been giving.
Told on his arrival that she wanted to see him, he had reverted to type and, on the way to her office, collected himself a coffee to hide behind if needed.
At some stage during his walk over the fields, he had come to the conclusion that he was definitely getting the worst of this. He wasn’t one to complain or care about being disrespected, but this attitude from Dylan, this new affability, wasn’t it just because she was getting what she’d wanted for so long? Jericho would be leaving.
He knocked, opened the door and entered. There was a woman sitting opposite Dylan. Short auburn hair, this year’s glasses, slim, a grey suit, three-inch heels. There was a small blue suitcase placed against the wall near the door.
Jericho took it all in, made the instant judgement that this would be someone from another police organisation come to take over the investigation, then stepped forward, closing the door behind him.
‘Robert, come in,’ said Dylan. ‘This is Detective Inspector Badstuber of the Swiss police. She heard about our murder yesterday and wanted to take a look.’
‘You’re investigating the Connolly murder?’ asked Jericho, bypassing the small-talk and getting straight to business.
‘That is correct.’
She stood and they shook hands. Jericho stepped back, taking a sip of coffee. There was a slightly awkward moment, as though Dylan and Badstuber expected Jericho to say something. He looked between them, then finally gave in to the peculiar pressure of the relentless gaze of two women.
‘We’re losing the case?’ he asked. ‘Is it going to become some sort of international effort?’
‘Not at all,’ said Dylan. ‘Quite the contrary, in fact. I’ve just been discussing it with the Inspector. Possibly the best way forward would be for you two to take it up and work together. Not sure if that will play out, but while you take the Inspector to see the corpse and murder site, I’ll make some calls. It might be a fruitful way for you to spend your last few weeks here, Robert, rather than slowly rotting into your chair.’
She smiled. Jericho had one of those dark moments of wanting to decapitate her with a painfully slow, blunt instrument, before displaying her head on a spike outside police headquarters in Bristol as a warning to other senior officers.
‘Sgt Haynes isn’t in?’ she asked. ‘I thought someone said he was here earlier.’
‘Had to go up to London,’ said Jericho.
Dylan seemed to lean forward slightly in her seat.
‘May I ask why?’
Jericho held her gaze for a moment. Here we go, he thought. It always comes to it. There wasn’t really much you could do without it coming to the attention of your boss.
‘An insurance case. I authorised it.’
She pursed her lips, not at all convinced.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Maybe, later, you could let me see the file.’
‘Of course.’
/>
As she said it, she realised that the words were probably futile. Jericho would either vacillate long enough that she’d forget, or else he would let her see some other case report that really would have required Haynes to go to London.
He looked back and forth between the women again, then opened the door behind him.
‘I should be getting on. Come through and see me when you’re finished here,’ he said to the Swiss DI. She acknowledged him with a slight movement of the head.
Jericho was gone, the door closed behind him.
14
Jericho was back at the site of the murder for the first time since the previous morning. There was only one officer on guard now, although the road had not yet been opened back up to the public.
The murder site was taped off. The steady stream of onlookers, which had grown immediately after the restrictions had been lifted, had dwindled again late at night and would be unlikely to get going again that morning. Life was back to normal. Any new murder tourists were probably travelling from a distance, and would be low in number.
Badstuber had wandered away from the markings that indicated Carter’s final resting place. She was standing in the middle of the road, staring off across the low-lying land to the hills a couple of miles away. Occasionally she would lift her head, as if smelling the air.
Jericho watched her for a while, then wandered over. They hadn’t spoken much. She had read the reports, and she wanted to see the scene of the crime. She seemed to think – as Jericho would have done under similar circumstances – that it was too early for words.
‘Seen enough?’ he asked.
Badstuber turned.
‘I think so. I could have left a while ago, but I like it here.’
She glanced back round at the spot where Carter had been shot.
‘A good place to die.’
Jericho wasn’t sure how to take that, so he nodded slightly, following her gaze.
‘Connolly,’ she continued, ‘he also died in a nice spot. Our killer picks his locations. Of course, more likely it’s all about timing, and the attractiveness of the surroundings is incidental.’
We Are Death Page 6
