We Are Death

by Douglas Lindsay

‘He rather disgraced himself, as so many did at that time in India. Women and drink. He might have got away with it, but he’d made the mistake of marrying the daughter of the fifth Earl of Canterbury. When word reached the Earl of Featherstone’s carousing and debauchery, not to mention his mistreatment of his daughter, as it was inevitably going to, that was the end for the young lad. Court martial, due to be sent home from India in complete disgrace.

  ‘The morning on which he was to travel, his wife having already departed to resume a life of some shame at the country home in Kent, Featherstone escaped from custody and fled into the mountains. He’d had quite an entourage of sycophants around him. It was said that it could have been any one of a number of people who helped release him. They never did find out. And that was him gone, The Honourable Featherstone, aged twenty-six, and not a day older.

  ‘And there the story goes cold for thirty years. What did anyone think at the time? That he had died? That he had fled to some other part of India, or perhaps somehow over the mountains into China? Most likely the former. That somewhere, up in those unforgiving mountains, his body lay frozen beneath ten feet of snow. Perhaps never to be found, or uncovered fifty years later, when his tale would have been long forgotten.’

  Haynes had a sudden image of Ripping Yarns and stopped himself from smiling. Now they really were in Leighton’s boys own adventure territory. Dear God!

  He looked down at his plate, aware that he seemed to be chewing a lot of seeds. Had he ever, knowingly, eaten seeds before? Why did people eat seeds? What was the point of seeds as part of your diet? Someone somewhere must have told old people that they were good for you. This decade’s thinking. At some future point it would be announced, towards the end of a BBC news bulletin in the way these things are, that seeds were in fact bad for you, and that there were several people dying from having sunflowers growing in their stomach at that very moment.

  He glanced at Leighton. She was captivated.

  ‘And thirty years later?’ she asked, as Drummond paused to take some muesli, one mouthful of which, Haynes thought, was probably enough to meet your five-a-day health requirement.

  ‘Thirty years later, the former Mrs Featherstone saw a ghost. Now re-married to a naval captain and living in Gloucestershire, one day her manservant knocks on her door and announces they have a visitor. She walks out to see the vision of her former husband, who was, of course, still her husband. It would appear she fainted. Sometime later, and upon making her recovery, she sat down to tea with Featherstone. He told her a remarkable story of adventure and survival...’

  Here we go, thought Haynes. A narrative within a narrative. Oh. My. God. Save me.

  ‘... the exact details of which are not recorded. He had not come to ask for her to join him, or to complicate her life. He had come only to apologise for his previous behaviour, and to tell her that although he would be returning to London, he would be doing so in private circles, that he would henceforth be conducting all his business under a new identity and that she need not worry about there being a scandal regarding her remarriage. He left shortly afterwards, and she neither saw nor heard of him again.’

  ‘Wow...’ said Leighton, her voice low.

  Haynes was more amused and engaged by her interest and wonder at the story than by the story itself.

  ‘That he turned up at her house was not the remarkable thing,’ said Drummond. ‘What so struck the lady was his appearance. It was said that he looked not a day older than when she’d last seen him, and that, indeed, perhaps he looked a few years younger.’

  ‘Was it definitely him?’

  ‘By the lady’s account, and we have nothing else on which to go. Given that within the account is the clear implication that the lady had committed bigamy, one would not suppose she had concocted the story for her own ends.’

  ‘So what happened then?’ asked Leighton, through a mouthful of food.

  Drummond nodded and paused to take on some more health on a spoon.

  I’d be surprised if you managed to eat this entire bowl without having to go to the bathroom halfway through, thought Haynes.

  Then he suddenly wondered if his problem was that he was jealous. Was he jealous? That this old man was fascinating his girlfriend in a way that he hadn’t yet seen? Yes, he’d brought her a case that had interested her, but he didn’t have any stories like this.

  He hadn’t had any cause to be jealous yet, but it was a natural emotion at the start of a relationship. Someone comes into your life; you’re the newest thing in it. Everything else that interests them and takes up their time has done it for a lot longer than you’ve been there. You have novelty, which is a bonus, but the people and the interests that went before, they have a much longer-term commitment already in place.

  He shook his head. It was nice seeing her this engaged, and the old man was hardly a threat.

  Come on. Stop being an arse. The guy will get to the point eventually.

  He glanced at Leighton again, then looked back at Drummond as the old man started to speak again.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘was when things began to take an even more mysterious, and darker, turn.’

  33

  ‘What about Harrow?’

  Geyerson’s first words to Jericho, after Jericho had told him of the murders of both Carter and Connolly. No concern, no regret. Jericho assumed he’d already been informed somehow by one of his people. He must have been told that they were looking for him, and why. Still, there was an obvious lack of interest in the others.

  They were sitting at a wooden table at the outer edge of the seating next to the midway station hut. The other tables were all full now, and there were a lot of people milling around. Although there was space for six at a table, they had spread out so no one had sat down with them. The one person who had looked like they might have an interest in asking them to make room, had been dispatched by a look and a low mutter from Jericho.

  Geyerson was tanned and fit, his hair thinning, long and grey. Long enough, probably that he could tie it at the back, although he never did. He had a short multi-coloured beard, and he was topless, his sixty year-old, suntanned upper body slender and with a matt of grey hair. The T-shirt he’d been wearing and had removed at some point on his walk was still in his hand, which was resting on the table.

  He looked like he never smiled. The sort of person for whom enjoying himself was a serious business.

  Emerick was sitting next to him, his long sleeved T-shirt still on his back. He had a bandana round his neck, which had been covering his head as they came down the hill, but which he’d lowered upon being greeted by Jericho and Badstuber.

  ‘You automatically assume that this is related to the expedition the five of you took?’ asked Jericho.

  ‘Two of them are dead and you’re here, bud,’ said Geyerson. ‘You obviously do. What about Harrow?’

  Jericho had never seen anyone in real life with teeth that were so perfect and straight and white. Not even the people with the perfect white teeth of Britain’s Got Justice. He was quite possibly looking at the most expensive teeth he’d ever seen.

  ‘We don’t know where he is,’ said Jericho. ‘Can you help us with that?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him in over three months.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have information that you talked to him three days ago in a hotel in Marrakesh.’

  Barely a flicker on Geyerson’s face at being caught in the lie.

  ‘Sure.’

  That was all Jericho was getting. The two men stared across the narrow table. Badstuber’s eyes were also on Geyerson. Emerick, for his part, felt uncomfortable, and was looking down at his hands.

  Whatever his last words had been, they had been forgotten.

  ‘We need to find him to warn him,’ said Jericho.

  ‘When you do, let me know,’ said Geyerson. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Could he be in Syria?’

&nbs
p; ‘I have no idea. Are we finished?’

  ‘Of course not,’ interjected Badstuber.

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Geyerson.

  He lifted a nearly empty bottle of water and tipped it into his mouth, the sound of his swallowing loud amongst the chatter of the rest station.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened on this Kangchenjunga expedition that could have resulted in someone wanting to kill two of the five members?’

  ‘Nothing exceptional,’ said Geyerson, his tone already suggesting boredom.

  ‘Is it reasonable to suppose that the two of you and Harrow might also be in danger?’

  ‘Couldn’t possibly tell you.’

  ‘Did you go all the way to the summit?’ asked Badstuber.

  ‘What?’ said Geyerson sharply, although he did not look at her.

  ‘There is a convention to stop short of the summit, a convention some ignore. Did you go all the way to the top?’

  ‘Ha!’ he barked, his head shaking. ‘Any other questions, Chief Inspector, or will you allow us to get on our way?’

  Like Haynes had felt in Paris, Jericho was regretting not being on his home patch. Unused to interviewing in these circumstances, he felt completely emasculated. Nothing he could say would carry any threat. In order to get anywhere, his only hope had been that Geyerson would prove cooperative.

  ‘I need you to tell me if you have any idea why this is happening,’ said Jericho.

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Geyerson again. ‘Can we end this now? Seriously, I have nothing to tell you. You go and investigate Carter and Connolly’s deaths, and when you find something, keep it to yourself, because I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Badstuber.

  Geyerson gave her a quick glance, looked back at Jericho, shaking his head.

  ‘We really are finished,’ he said.

  ‘We’re not accusing you,’ said Jericho.

  Geyerson barked out a laugh.

  ‘Well, thank fuck for that. I mean, seriously, most fucking cops would probably think I was capable of killing someone from three feet while they’re in England and I’m in Morocco. But sure, I’m grateful to you, buddy. Jesus.’

  ‘Therefore, there’s an extremely high chance that you could be on the hit list.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered again.

  ‘We recommend that you get yourself, and Mr Emerick and Mr Harrow, twenty-four-hour protection.’

  Geyerson shook his head, started smiling ruefully.

  ‘Jesus, you people...

  ‘If someone wants you all dead, then you’re not going to be able to protect yourself. You need at least one bodyguard, probably more.’

  ‘Are you fellas paying for it?’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said Badstuber, ‘but don’t pretend you don’t have the capacity to pay for it yourself.’

  ‘One bodyguard each for you two, twenty-four hours,’ said Jericho. ‘At the very least.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Geyerson, but it was more exasperation this time, rather than annoyance. Generally everything that came out his mouth sounded like annoyance. However, in this instance, he rather liked the sound of a bodyguard. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had one in the past, and he’d been contemplating it ever since the expedition had ended.

  Despite everything, it seemed as though he had underestimated the powers of his opponents. In fact, it had not been until the death of Connolly that he’d truly realised that they had opponents. Now they were showing their hand, and it did not take much to realise that this business would likely play out quickly and decisively. He had ignored it, walking in the high mountains of North Africa, but the arrival of the police was at last focusing his mind.

  One bodyguard? He was going to get a team. Not, however, that he was going to give the police any credit for his decision.

  ‘Emerick and I spend every day together,’ said Geyerson, dismissively, ‘I think one bodyguard between us will do it.’

  ‘You don’t sleep together, do you?’ snapped Jericho.

  Finally Emerick looked over, then his eyes dropped again quickly. Geyerson held Jericho’s gaze across the table. The look told him that yes, that was exactly what they did, but Jericho didn’t know whether to believe it. Geyerson could say absolutely anything, and Emerick appeared so supine that he would never contradict him.

  As assistants go, he seemed like he might be completely useless. That they were sleeping together at least made some sense of them being together all the time.

  ‘Don’t judge me, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘We need to speak at much greater length,’ said Jericho, and Geyerson bristled. ‘I don’t care where it is, but we’re investigating a double murder, and you know a lot more about this case than we do and I’m not–’

  ‘Fuck. You.’

  Jericho clenched his teeth, aware that the tone of conversation had started to rise, and that there had been a corresponding dip in noise at the nearest table, as the walkers realised there was an uncomfortable confrontation nearby.

  ‘We need you to accompany us back to Zurich,’ said Jericho. ‘We need to return to Marrakech thi–’

  Geyerson’s hand slammed down onto the table. Jericho stopped talking, but his look held firm, as Geyerson’s face hardened, spittle on his lips.

  ‘Chief Inspector, this is none of your fucking business. My life is none of your fucking business. Why don’t you take your pointless little German bitch here back home, fuck her or whatever you’re going to do, and get the fuck out of my fu–’

  Emerick’s body fell forward, his head thudding onto the table. An instant later there was the sound of the gunshot from high up the other side of the valley. A moment, then a scream from the next table and a flurry of action. Jericho grabbed Badstuber, pushing her down onto his lap, below the level of the table. Geyerson leapt to the ground, crawling quickly behind the table and Jericho. The nearby table started to scatter, a slight tumult arising, the crowd further away looking over curiously.

  Jericho was a sitting duck, his body used entirely to protect Badstuber. A moment passed. All he could do was look over, high up the side of the valley, to see if there was any sign of the shooter. The sun was still high in the sky. The entire side of the mountain was bathed in light, yet there was nothing to see in amongst the rocks.

  A few seconds and he knew there was no second bullet coming. Not for him, anyway. There might be for Geyerson, but even that he doubted. This sniper was brilliant. The shot that had killed Connolly had been brilliant, and so too was this one. If he’d intended killing Geyerson, he would have had the bullet off before the sound of the first one reached the resting station.

  Jericho finally looked at Emerick. He had seemed so feckless, so insignificant. Now he was dead, and it was as though the number of people on the planet had not been reduced.

  Blood was running from the small entry hole in the back of his head, pooling on the tabletop and dripping in between the slats. There was no need to check for signs of life. In fact, if he’d done that before Emerick had been shot, he doubted he would have found any either.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ barked Geyerson from just behind Jericho.

  He looked back up the mountain. The sniper was invisible, but that was the person they knew they were dealing with. A ghost.

  He felt Badstuber push slightly against his hand, and he let her sit up. She looked worriedly at Emerick’s body, and then at Jericho, then got out the seat to stare up the mountain.

  The noise of the crowd was beginning to pick up, curiosity beginning to get the better of them, as they began to close in to see the corpse.

  Geyerson still lay on the ground, cursing as Jericho moved away from the bench and once more partially opened the line of sight back up the hill.

  34

  ‘There is some record around this time of an organisation known as Le Pavillon. You may have heard of it, but I think most likely not.’

  Leighton shook her head, Haynes raised an ever-sceptical ey
ebrow.

  ‘The Pavilion, of course, as it is generally taken.’

  Jesus. This doesn’t really move the narrative any closer back to the real world.

  ‘There is mention of there being a link between a man named Trelawny and The Pavilion. Trelawny, many believe, was the reborn and still youthful Featherstone, now come to make his fortune in London and the wider world. And make his fortune he did. Jacob Trelawny died in 1913, quite possibly the richest man in Great Britain.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Leighton.

  ‘No, of course not. He sought neither public name nor infamy. He conducted his business in the utmost privacy, but it is said by some that within ten years of his appearance in London, he had turned The Pavilion into the most powerful organisation of its kind in the whole of the Empire, and by default the entire world.’

  ‘Who were they?’ asked Haynes.

  Perhaps there will be a second course. Pancakes and bacon, with maple syrup.

  The old man answered with a slight wave of the hand, then took another mouthful. Leighton and Haynes shared a rare conspiratorial glance, and for a moment he felt he had her back on his side.

  There are no sides!

  ‘Businessmen, politicians, statesmen, industrialists, diplomats. It is said that they did not become part of the establishment, but that they were the establishment. It was also said that they held some great source of power, and then... and then it all goes quiet, and little is heard again of The Pavilion.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘In the late 1840s. I have been able to find nothing of them, other than a couple of obscure mentions coming out of Paris, no less. It seems perhaps they moved their operation there, or maybe they opened a new headquarters. How can we tell?’

  He indicated the file lying on the sideboard behind Haynes.

  ‘Your book there does not reveal much, but it does, at least, provide a definite link between Trelawny’s Pavilion and the underlying power in France and its colonies. Rare, very rare, to have anything at all written about the Pavilion, so it does give unique, if meagre insight. That it exists at all, and indeed, that someone allowed it to come into your hands is, I think, more significant than anything you will find in the translation.’