We Are The Hanged Man

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Did you actually believe anything of what you just said?'

  'Fuck you,' she retorted. 'I'm bringing Cher up here right now, and you better be ready to start doing whatever the fuck it is that you do, because this is television, Don Fucking Quixote, and we can fucking crush you.'

  She walked out leaving the door open. Jericho's eyes followed her back as she stormed through the office. The faces that peered into Jericho's office were quickly averted when they saw that he was looking their way.

  'Don Quixote?' said Haynes. 'Cool. Who does that make me?'

  'Sancho Panza,' said Jericho.

  'Nice.'

  'Sancho Panza was an idiot,' said Jericho.

  'Yeah, but a good idiot…'

  Jericho reached into his pocket and brought out the four Tarot cards, held them towards Haynes.

  'I'm not sure what, but get me something else on these. I don't want to say that we're missing something. I'm sure we know everything that this guy wants us to know and no more, but at some stage we're going to need to get one step ahead of him, or else we're fucked. Well, I'm fucked at any rate.'

  Haynes took the cards and transferred them to his own pocket.

  'What about giving Dylan the heads up?'

  A tumult started from the far end of the open plan, as the door was barged open and Claudia returned, leading Cher, plus a researcher, the cameraman and the sound guy.

  'No,' said Jericho, and Haynes nodded and left quickly, before he could get sucked into television's desperate search for cheap real-life drama.

  *

  'So what now?' asked Cher.

  She was looking bright-eyed and excited. The camera was running, the sound guy was positioned discreetly at the back, Claudia was standing off to the side. The television people were more or less invisible; the two principals were playing out the drama in isolation. Real life television couldn't get any more real.

  'Not much doing,' said Jericho, 'We could fill in some paperwork if you like.'

  'But, like, hasn't there been any crime? Like, burglaries and stuff. Or a paedo, something like that?'

  Jericho had one on-going paedophile investigation, but was not going to be the one to mention it. He was pretty sure that after the first day, when nothing had happened, Claudia would be straight into Dylan's office demanding that there be more crime committed in Wells, so that the show could be more interesting.

  'Nothing like that,' said Jericho.

  'What about an unsolved murder? There must be one of them. Or a disappearance?'

  Jericho looked at her sharply, then let the look ease from his face. He wondered if Claudia or Washington would have put her up to raising the subject of Amanda. He had to be determined not to rise to it.

  'No,' he said, 'no unsolved murders.'

  'Well, like….' she began, then wasn't sure what to say, so finished the sentence with, 'like, duh…'

  'Would you like for us to arrange for some crime to be committed?' asked Jericho dryly.

  'Well, like, can you do that?' she said. 'But that seems kind of, like, pointless. Isn't there some real crime? You read about it in the papers all the fuckin' time. All sorts of shit.'

  'I might be able to dredge up a small insurance fraud, if you like. But when I say small, I mean really small. I wouldn't usually handle it, but maybe under the circumstances…'

  He looked at Claudia. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, as if it was Jericho's fault that there was nothing doing in the world of crime in the West Country.

  'What about Lol?' said Cher, all innocence.

  'What about her?'

  'She's missing. Like, what the fuck? I thought you'd be all over that like an STD. I mean, seriously, what the fuck? Why aren't you doing that, man?'

  'Because she went missing in London,' said Jericho. 'It's their crime. They have allocated officers to investigate. We're not throwing procedure out of the window because the television cameras are here.'

  As he said it, he realised that for the first time they had stumbled across something that was actually liable to be included on the show.

  'But like, they said in the papers, it's your thing. They showed you sitting around doing fuck all about it.'

  'I was doing fuck all about it because I'm not the investigating officer. So I was doing fuck all about it, in the same way that I do fuck all about bank robberies in Inverness, drug crimes in Middlesbrough and sex crimes in Lincoln.'

  'So what do you do?'

  Claudia was expressionless, but inside she was squealing with excitement. The stupid bastard of a policeman was being put on the spot by a nineteen-year-old girl and she absolutely had him by the testicles. Not only that, she was squeezing them with both hands; and she was so fucking gormless she probably didn't even realise she was doing it.

  'I deal with crime that happens in the city of Wells. That's my job.'

  'There isn't any fucking crime!'

  'Like I said, what do you want me to do? Make some?'

  'Go and help some of the fuckers that need it. It's on the news every bleedin' day. Police this, police that, not enough manpower. And this is the real thing? You lot sitting around on your fat arses, wanking off.'

  Jericho had nothing to say to that. She was annoying him beyond words. He wouldn't have said anything had the cameras not been present; he would just have shown her out. However, given the presence of television he knew he had been backed into a corner. She had the moral high ground.

  'Let's look for Lol,' she said. 'I mean, I don't know where to start, do I? You're the policeman. So, come on, lets go. Phone up whoever the fuck you need to phone up and let's get going.'

  Jericho held her gaze for a while and then looked at Claudia. He had wondered from the start if it might be a television set-up, and now the thought struck him even more forcefully. In front of the cameras, however, was not the time to say anything.

  Claudia smiled. Jericho looked back at Cher, but still did not speak. Eventually someone would feel the need to address the awkward silence with inane chatter, but it wouldn't be him.

  29

  Dylan was flabbergasted, which was a state of mind that Jericho well recognised in her. It always manifested itself in open-mouthed stares and a high usage of the word fuck. On occasion he quite enjoyed the performance; usually, however, he just tried to switch off until he sensed he had an opportunity to leave.

  'Really, what the fuck were you thinking? You couldn't just have shown her round the station, found some paedo to go and beat up, or waited outside the King's Head until some drunk arsehole got in his car to go home? It's not like we live in a fucking monastery. It's not like we live in fucking… I don't know… a fucking vacuum, a fucking crime vacuum. But you sit there looking like a fucking lemon, a fucking joke lemon. What the fuck are you…? You know, fuck you. I don't give a fuck about you. What the fuck is this station going to look like if they show that clip? You think there are going to be any jobs left down here? Fucking jobs? Police jobs? Do you? And, of course, we come to the fucking crux, don't we? They won't show it, if you get involved in looking for this stupid tart, a stupid tart that absolutely everyone knows is in hiding and entirely complicit with the producers. You…. You! have turned a harmless piece of crap, into this massive police own goal. It was a fucking honour for you to get picked to be on this show, and look what you've done, look what you go and do. And are you going to be the one who extricates us from it? Are you? Are. You. Fuck. Who's going to be doing that? Oh, let me think. Fucking me! That's who.'

  Jericho held her gaze throughout. On one occasion a piece of spit landed on his cheek; a couple of times he felt it on his hands. He did not move.

  'You're just going to sit there, aren't you?' she said. 'I seriously don't know why the fuck I'm waiting for you to say anything.'

  She stared at him, her eyebrows raised in anticipation. Eventually, when Jericho's gaze remained unremittingly straight and dull, she bristled some more and then pointed a lazy hand at the door.

  'Get
out,' she said.

  He rose quickly, turned and walked from the office.

  'Just get fucking out,' she said, then looked up, and saw that he was already gone.

  'Fuck,' she muttered.

  *

  They were in the City Arms again. A quiet corner round the side, next to the sofas, hardly anyone else in the bar. A slow evening, the drinkers having stocked up with cheap alcohol at the supermarket, choosing to sit at home instead, watching reality television and glossy BBC documentaries pitched at the discerning ten-year-old.

  They had been sitting for ten minutes, slowly working their way through a pint each, a packet of crisps for Haynes, peanuts for Jericho. Either marshalling their thoughts before starting a conversation or, as was certainly the case with Jericho, nothing to say.

  He was thinking about the Hanged Man cards. Knew there must be an angle that he hadn't visualised. Something was coming and it was aimed directly at him. He might not like the notion, but it was personal. Not just that, but it was cold, calculated and brutally set up. However it played itself out, it was being done in such a way that Jericho was going to be caught cold. They were teasing him, playing with him, letting him know that something was coming yet giving nothing away.

  'You took a couple of bollockings today,' said Haynes, folding up his empty crisp packet. 'From women. A few of the lads are talking about it.'

  Jericho acknowledged that he'd spoken with a slight movement of the head.

  'You just going to take it?'

  'What do you want me to do?' asked Jericho.

  Haynes took a drink. Nearing the end of his pint. He nodded.

  'Suppose.'

  'These cards,' said Jericho, 'that's what's troubling. I don't give a shit about the women, or that they are women. The superintendent shouts… so what are you going to do? Nothing. You sit there, you wait for the noise to finish, then you leave. The TV woman… I don't know…'

  'Tell her to fuck off?'

  Jericho nodded.

  'Nice. Sure, I could. But you know what? She's not fucking off. They're here for the duration. If and when they do fuck off, it won't be because I tell them to.'

  Haynes wasn't convinced, didn't say anything, hid his face behind his pint glass.

  'I'm dull, I don't cry, I never say anything funny and I never get hysterical. Eventually they'll realise that this dour bloke thing that I've got going on isn't an act, and then hopefully they ask that I be relieved of my duties and go and stick a camera in someone else's face. Maybe it'll be you.'

  Jericho had meant the last remark as a tease, a threat of some sort. Haynes smiled.

  'Wouldn't mind,' he said. 'Reckon I'd look pretty sharp on TV.'

  'You're welcome to it. Now,' said Jericho, 'you're going to tell me something else about those cards.'

  Haynes tapped his finger on the side of his glass, contemplated downing the rest of it, wondered about having another.

  'No, I'm not,' he said. 'Just, nothing else to tell, unless you want me to hand them over to Yeovil. Think you should.'

  Jericho stared into his glass. Why was he still keeping it a secret from everyone else? When the story finally broke, when he finally took the evidence to Dylan, it was going to look worse and worse for him the more of it that there was to tell, the more cards he'd received, the more they'd broken into his house, the more they'd toyed with him.

  'Television,' said Jericho. 'It's just going to be insufferable if those people get wind of this, and the minute we let it out into the station, they will get wind of it.'

  'Dylan then, just Dylan.'

  'Because she's discreet…'

  'Yes,' said Haynes, 'she can be when it suits her.'

  'It won't necessarily suit her this time though, will it? Why should she be discreet when it comes to me? And then there's always the possibility that it's not a coincidence that these have started arriving at the same time as the TV show was being set up. It could well be that whoever's doing it is waiting for TV to get hold of it, and once it's out, they're going to play it even more. Play me even more. Then this thing, whatever it is, will play out on live television.'

  He had been, for once, becoming quite agitated, leaning across the table towards Haynes, but with his last words he shook his head and backed away again.

  This was what they wanted. The people sending the cards. They wanted him and Haynes arguing, they wanted him getting annoyed at his colleagues, falling out with them. And maybe they even wanted, and had intended, for it to happen on television, every night.

  'Think about it,' said Haynes. 'You know they're setting you up to look bad. Why do anything that potentially makes you look even worse?'

  Jericho drained his pint, decided he wasn't going to have another. He needed to be thinking clearly, although even clear thoughts did not appear to be helping him at this stage.

  *

  Durrant had his next victim back at his house, tied to the table where the previous day poor, sad, deserted Lol's fledgling television career had come to an end.

  Lol's body was still folded up in a bag in the corner of the room, but Durrant made sure not to look at her.

  He had spent a day going quietly insane, staring at the sea, eating tasteless food, walking restlessly up and down the small sitting room. Couldn't keep still, fidgety fingers closing and grasping, relaxing, straightening, tensing. His whole being set on edge due to the discomfort of the Lol situation. He had needed an outlet.

  He had driven to Cambridge. Ipswich was easier but was perhaps too close. Wanted a little more distance between where his victim was lifted and where he was going to end up.

  Britain had changed a lot since the time of his incarceration, but the multicultural nature of present day British society had not been lost on him. Indeed, given the inflated level of ethnic minorities amongst the prison population, Durrant had imagined there would be an even higher percentage among the populace in general.

  He was not interested in the university area of Cambridge, instead had aimed for the poorer parts of the city. There he had picked up a young, unemployed teenager of African descent.

  It would be days, perhaps even weeks – and perhaps even never – before the police took the missing persons report seriously. This wasn't going to be the kind of missing person that the white middle class media picked up on. They wouldn't care; they wouldn't want their readers and viewers to know about it.

  The media thrive on keeping the public afraid. The kind of missing person storyline they like is the kind where it could have happened to anyone. The kind where an average middle class person from an average middle class family could be affected. The kids that went missing from the poor city housing estates were not representative of the newspaper reading population in comfortable suburbia.

  Durrant wasn't fooling himself about what had happened with the girl. It had come from nowhere, and he was honest enough with himself to acknowledge that he was apprehensive about it happening again. And so he made sure that there would be no repeat by picking up a nineteen-year-old boy he found walking alone along a quiet road, just as the streetlights were coming on. A patch of barren grass on one side, a few empty shops and empty houses on the other.

  Durrant wouldn't know why the boy got into his car. He just drove, neither of them spoke for the first few minutes.

  'Where you taking me, man?' the lad asked eventually.

  'To the seaside,' said Durrant, and the lad smirked.

  Bound and gagged in a back room in a small cottage at the seaside, he wasn't smirking any more.

  30

  Jericho had been mostly avoiding it, because he didn't think it mattered. He also thought that it fell into the shadowy world of the supernatural, something of which he was not entirely scornful, but something that he most definitely did not want to go anywhere near.

  The Tarot. He could steer clear of it all he liked, and there was plainly symbolism implicit in the cards that was directed purely at him, but whoever was sending them had chosen Tarot for a
reason. They could easily have toyed with him and threatened him with typed notes or cut out pieces of newspaper or recorded messages or e-mails or video.

  Yet they had chosen the Tarot, and it was time for him to take a closer look.

  They stood at the bottom of the High Street, having left the City Arms after their one and only pint. Haynes looked at his watch, not sure what to do with himself. Still hadn't eaten, not sure whether to go home, call one of his friends, or take his laptop and go and sit in Café Romna and have a chicken tikka.

  'What are you doing now?' asked Jericho.

  'Not sure.'

  Haynes wondered if he was about to suggest they had dinner, although that was something that had never happened before.

  'You manage to find out where the country house on the card is yet?'

  Haynes knew that Jericho knew he hadn't. It was his way of telling Haynes what the rest of the evening held for him.

  'Keep one of the cards, give me the other three,' said Jericho.

  Haynes fished them out of his pocket.

  'And don't take the most recent. I know it's the best one for your search, but I need it.'

  Haynes handed them over, keeping the next most recent card.

  'Where are you going?' asked Haynes.

  Jericho raised an eyebrow at him, smiled in a curious way, and then turned and walked away from the direction of the station, back towards his house.

  *

  He looked at his watch and knocked again, then stepped back and looked at the windows above the shop. Started looking at the doors nearby to see if there were any which might lead to the flats upstairs.

  He was back in Glastonbury to speak to Newton. He had, on his previous visit, found the woman quite disconcerting, which was one of the reasons he hadn't returned so far. He could, of course, have spent several hours online, or with an actual book, acquainting himself with the Tarot. Equally, he could have gone to someone else. However, he continued to want to keep knowledge of the cards limited to as small a group as possible. And the thought of reading about the cards for several hours depressed him; and books weren't interactive, they wouldn't answer the inevitable questions that came into his head.