An easily rebutted question, but Brooks was annoyed that he continued to return to it.
'And can I ask you one more time, why do you ask? Has Mr Durrant been in some kind of trouble?'
Haynes stared blankly across the desk.
'Did you speak to any of the original arresting officers with regard to Durrant's release?' asked Haynes, changing tack.
'Not normal procedure,' responded Brookes quickly.
'Durrant was not a normal prisoner,' said Haynes pointlessly, receiving nothing in return.
'Did you seek any police opinion when considering the matter?'
'Naturally,' said Brookes, although he hesitated before saying it.
Haynes waited to see whether he was going to give him any more, but he remained silent. The Assistant Governor's fingers tapped on top of the folder. Haynes considered leaping across the desk and grabbing it from him.
'Would you be able to tell me the name of the office or officers that were involved in the process?'
Brookes smirked. He held Haynes' gaze. Haynes was getting nothing further.
*
Haynes was furious as he left the office, his face set hard. He closed the door, stood in the outer office for a moment composing himself. Closed his eyes, straightened his shoulders. Deep breath, drawn into his chest. Relaxed his fingers.
Thought about what Brookes would be doing at that very minute, five yards away on the other side of the door. Picking up the phone perhaps.
Haynes opened his eyes. Mrs Henderson, to whom he'd spoken briefly on his way into the meeting, was watching him with a smile on her face.
'Didn't go well then?' she asked, her voice low.
Haynes smiled ruefully as he looked at her. Bobbed dark brown hair, round face, early thirties, wedding ring, white blouse buttoned all the way up.
He shook his head.
'He can be a bit awkward sometimes,' she said, mouthing the word awkward.
Haynes nodded this time, gave her another smile and then started walking from the office.
He stopped at the door, turned back. Would Jericho just walk out on a conversation with a woman? Well, it depended on the woman, but if the woman was someone from whom he might be able to finagle information, then more than likely not,
He stood inside the door, still not saying anything, his hesitation born of not being entirely sure how to proceed.
'Can I get you anything else?' she asked.
'Yep…' replied Haynes, and he stepped forward, smiling with seeming awkwardness. 'Sorry, this is really embarrassing. I was discussing with the Assistant Governor…… he dealt recently with someone from the Police Service on a matter of prisoner release… I'm sure he does it all the time, that's the tricky thing. I meant to get a name from him, just forgot to ask. I, eh… feels a bit uncomfortable going back in there. Don't really like to disturb him….'
'He's a busy man,' she said.
'Exactly,' replied Haynes. 'I don't suppose…'
He was fishing, and for all his attempts at laid-back, disarming panache, he wasn't fooling anyone. Even a PA who hated her boss and who found herself naturally disarmed by Haynes' smile.
'I'm afraid I'm not in a position to give out any information of that nature,' she said.
Haynes smiled instantly and then held up his hand in apology.
'Of course,' he said. 'Shouldn't have asked.'
He held her gaze for a moment, suddenly aware that he had more confidence with women after realising he'd made some sort of connection with Leighton at the British Library, then he flashed one final smile at her and turned towards the door.
She let him get as far as one foot in the corridor.
'I can say that I wasn't surprised to get your call today, as we've had a few dealings recently with the Superintendent from your station.'
Haynes turned back. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes narrowed in curiosity.
'In relation to the release of Gordon Durrant?'
She held his gaze for a moment and then shook her head. The second the words were out she regretted it. Loose tongue. Again.
'The Assistant Governor will be out soon,' she said. 'You'll need to go.'
Haynes felt the vibration of the phone in his pocket. He contemplated stepping back into the office, but was there any point? He only threatened to get the PA into trouble, and hadn't she just told him the precise information he'd been looking for?
All those diagrams that he and Jericho had been drawing, diagrams with lines that went all over but never seemed to connect, now had Superintendent Dylan in the middle, and those lines had an apex, and she sat there, like a train station in the middle of a city.
*
There was a lull at the production offices of Britain's Got Justice. The day before had been so full of exciting events and speculation; a rogue police officer, a kidnapped police officer and a dead body.
The two desks in the room were littered with the detritus of that morning's newspapers, which were plastered with pictures of Lol and Jericho and Sergeant Light. Fear and hysterical loathing were everywhere. The attacks on Jericho, this week's comedy villain, had been raised to new heights of hate-filled vituperation. Lol Suspect Is Sleazo Cop said the Mirror. Police Service in Tatters At Latest Outrage laboured the Independent. Cher Terrified As Killer Cop Cuts Loose said the Sun. And so they went on.
The heights of the previous day, however, meant that there was a bit of an air of the day after the Cup Final about the office, even though they were now into the show's penultimate day, with a huge Saturday night to follow, when show insiders were happily and absurdly predicting to anyone who'd listen that they were anticipating the highest viewing figures ever gained by a television show in the UK.
Washington recognised the general feeling of apathy while he stood at the window looking down on the street below. They had summoned Sergeant Haynes back to work, and had been told that he'd be there early afternoon (albeit Haynes had not yet been informed.) Even so, Washington wasn't bothered about Haynes. He recognised that Haynes had the same disdain for the show that Jericho had displayed, but Haynes just wasn't in Jericho's class. It was like having Ed Miliband annoyed at you, rather than Nelson Mandela. Haynes was pointless, brought virtually nothing to the show, and he considered it a bonus that he'd walked out on them the previous evening. What they really needed was to find Jericho.
Cher, Ando and Xav were sitting idly by, flicking through the gossip columns, waiting for some direction. Since they were being filmed going about this mundane task, Cher occasionally burst into tears.
Morris was also in the room, aware that her days at the company were numbered, and desperately throwing out ideas to try to inject some enthusiasm into the morning.
Washington wasn't too worried, and consequently happy to ignore everything that she said. There were over ten hours until they went to broadcast that night. Something would happen in that time. Ten hours was a long time in television. As was ten minutes.
The door burst open and Claudia came gushing into the room. The moment she saw her face, Morris wished that she was the only one who knew what it was that Claudia knew.
Claudia waved a piece of paper.
'Fucking A,' she said.
'Jericho?' said Washington. At that moment, Jericho was all that mattered.
'No,' said Claudia, trying to keep her enthusiasm up as she saw it drain away from Washington. 'Better than that,' she said determinedly. 'We've got a sighting of the third car.'
'The third car?' said Washington dismissively, although he knew which car she was talking about.
'The unregistered car that was spotted near the hotel on the two evenings when Lol and the police woman were kidnapped.'
Washington nodded, looked unimpressed. Cher gasped, put a hand to her mouth. Xav leant forward excitedly, Ando stood up as if he was ready to fight someone.
'It's parked by a small seafront cottage in Suffolk. Near Shingle Street. A woman out walking her dog this morning thought she heard a
scream in the cottage. Turned and walked away, but she noticed the car. She'd read about it in the paper. Made a note of the number, checked it out at home, called the police a short time ago.'
She looked at her watch.
'Took her a couple of hours,' she said and shrugged. 'The great British public, eh?'
Washington breathed heavily through his nose and rubbed his hands over his face.
'Not bad,' he said. 'I presume we're more hopeful with this since the number's not registered. And the scream sounds promising.'
Claudia nodded excitedly.
'Sounds a bit creepy,' said Ando. 'Where's Suffolk?'
Washington ignored him, checked his watch.
'The police haven't gone out there yet, have they?'
'They're waiting for us. I made sure.'
'Good. But fuck, it'll take two hours to get out there.'
'I've got the helicopter set up. They'll be ready for us in ten minutes. Space for us two, the musketeers, camera and sound.'
Hattie Morris felt the rage and jealousy rise within her.
'Good fucking job,' said Washington. 'Good fucking job. Go on then, you lot, get the fuck going. The show doesn't make itself.'
A little of the light died from Claudia's face. She may have been about to leave 1st May Television, but she wanted to take her relationship with Washington with her. He was not a man to lose, once you had him in your inner circle.
'Aren't you coming?' she asked.
'You're fucking kidding, love,' he said. 'It's field work. On you go. Take Hattie.'
Claudia looked at Hattie like Hattie was the shit left behind by something that had crawled out of the sewer. She turned back to Washington.
'This could be huge,' she said. 'You'll want to be there.'
It was unlikely that he would have gone in any case, but he was scared of helicopters. Two bad experiences inside a week in LA three years previously, and he hadn't been in one since.
No one needed to know that he was scared of anything. He waved a dismissive hand. 'If it's huge, bring it back to the studio.'
'On you go,' he added, ushering them out with his hand, when Claudia didn't move.
She gave another glance at Morris, then turned and walked quickly from the room. Washington cast a hand around the others and then swept it in the direction of the door.
'Go…go…'
He smiled, like some kind of benign father figure.
Morris walked out first, her head down, chastened by Claudia's withering looks, followed by the Three Musketeers, camera and sound.
Xav looked nervous, Ando looked like he was one of the A-Team, albeit not the one who was scared of helicopters, while Cher started to cry again. No one really paid attention, or was quite sure whether she was crying out of relief, excitement, fear or continuing grief. In fact she was crying because her advisor had told her that those who weren't going to vote for her were doing so because they thought she came across as too masculine.
The intrepid team stormed out; the door closed. Silence.
Washington closed his eyes and rubbed the top of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, enjoying the still of the office. Then he shook his shoulders, stretched his arms out wide, cracked his knuckles, drummed his fingers on the desk and took his iPhone from his pocket.
60
They were the old tunes, the ones with Bix Beiderbecke and the Paul Whiteman orchestra. Rockin' Chair, Stardust, Washboard Blues… Scratchy. A lot of piano, the voice harsh and unrefined.
'You talked about him in your sleep sometimes.'
Jericho looked curiously at her. The music was quiet, in the background, but always there. The light was dim and he couldn't tell from her face if she was joking.
'No I didn't.'
She laughed lightly. A beautiful laugh. The one that he remembered when he remembered her laughing.
'How would you know?'
'I just… I'd stopped thinking about him.'
'Perhaps. But your subconscious hadn't.'
She was smiling, a kind smile. Comforting. She was never angry any more.
'Why didn't you say?' he asked.
'You seemed so… troubled. I wondered if you'd mention him, but you never did.'
He looked at the carpet, started thinking about his marriage, those days living in the small flat on the other side of Green Park. He may have been a police officer at the time, but it seemed another world from Durrant. Durrant's monstrous, evil, terrifying world.
'You're not really here, are you?' he said eventually, his voice filled with sadness.
'No,' she replied. She sounded much more matter of fact.
'Where are you?' he asked, looking up.
The chair was empty.
*
Jericho did not sleep well. He may have drifted off almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow, but he woke an hour later and slept restlessly thereafter. He finally gave up the ghost of attempting to sleep and got out of bed at just after five a.m. He showered, drank some water and ate the last of the food that he had in the room, then went downstairs and back out onto the dark streets of London, hat pulled down low over his face, slightly incongruous with his new suit. He walked with even more of a hunch than normal, heading down four blocks to Oxford Street, where he knew he would find a twenty-four hour internet café.
There were not many people abroad at this hour. Those who were did not look at him. It was still well before dawn; the streets were wet although it was not raining as he took his ten-minute walk.
He bought a coffee, nearly bought a croissant but identified it as having been there since the previous day so chose not to, and then ensconced himself at a monitor near the back corner. There were twenty-four computers available; only one other was occupied at that point. He sat with his back to the door, but could see the entrance reflected in the wall in front of him.
The guy at the counter seemed tired and did not, as far as Jericho could tell, recognise his customer as the new most wanted man in Britain.
He'd had a growing sense of unease since the previous evening and, as he'd shuffled around his bed, never quite getting back to sleep, he'd finally admitted to himself the cause of that unease.
Durrant.
It was a long time since he'd thought about him, but the man had had enough of an effect on him to colour his early years as a police officer. Nowadays Jericho would have been offered counselling to cope with the things he'd seen; in the early '80s it had all been part of the job. You got your counselling in the pub later that evening with your fellow officers. Yet it had, without any doubt, fucked him up for a long time. Him and several others.
Ten years to stop seeing the images in his head, another five before he could possibly have said that a day went by when he didn't think of Durrant, and then he'd met Amanda and finally had something that consumed him, and took his mind off all the endless terrible things and terrible people with which his days were filled. For a while his thoughts were about love, and then they'd married and suddenly the police hadn't been his entire life, just a part of it, just the thing he did during the day until he got home. And then Amanda disappeared and Jericho was once more faced with life, so tragic and brutal.
He started off by Googling Gordon Durrant, as Haynes would a couple of hours later, to no end. A lot of Gordon Durrants, none of them his Gordon Durrant. Certainly there was no mention of him having recently been released from prison, which gave him some hope. The thought that it could be Durrant who was behind all of this really scared him.
Durrant's victims came back to him. Every one of them. All the names, all the details. The injuries, the photographs, the corpses, the notebooks intimately describing the effects of torture.
He Googled the names of the victims, leaving the most common to last. Given that it had been pre-internet days when the crimes were committed, he did not expect to discover much, if anything.
He found a mention of the third name on his mental list – Marion Waters – in a blog written by a distan
t relative. They mentioned a few details of the case, most of which were inaccurate.
Given that it had not been widely reported at the time, he was not surprised that there was nothing to be found about the victims all these years later. The final name he came to – Jane Smith – he gave up on rather quickly.
He thought of everything else he could in relation to the crimes and the victims. Places, addresses, methods, torture, notes, implements.
He had another thought. In the early years he had followed Durrant's career in prison, and he had learned much about the criminal/psychotic mind. As a young police officer he had wondered if Durrant would be a riot of destruction in prison. After a few years he had come to understand the man much better than he had while investigating him.
In retrospect his quiet isolation in prison had been entirely predictable. He did not need anyone else; he was not interested in anyone else other than as subjects.
From the minute he entered prison he had devoted himself to learning and study, which was exactly what he'd done prior to being admitted to prison in the first place.
Jericho had managed to extricate himself from thoughts of Durrant, and had stopped checking on him. After the first five or six years he did not know anything about his prison internment, but he did not believe it could have been too different.
Had he published anything in the last thirty years? That was what Jericho suddenly wondered. He didn't imagine that it would be a book or an article in the Times, but a scientific paper or an essay was surely not out of the question. Durrant had taken himself so seriously.
He Googled "torture" and "pain threshold". He tracked down essays and scientific studies. He came across a lot about the Nazis and quickly moved on. He needed something more recent. He disregarded anything that didn't seem to originate in the UK.
An hour and a half he looked, trawling through endless pages. He had a second, and then a third cup of coffee. Fresh pastries arrived; he had a pain au raison with his third coffee.
At first he was thinking rather close-mindedly that what he was looking for was perhaps a pdf of a document with Durrant's name on it, a file that wouldn't have been picked up by the search engine. The first time he came to any publication on the subject of pain threshold he realised that Durrant might well have published under an assumed name.
We Are The Hanged Man Page 28
