We Are The Hanged Man
Page 33
'It doesn't seem right,' said Jericho. Haynes could tell from the quality of his voice that he was starting to drift off again. Dylan would be unhappy. She had been wanting Jericho subtly interrogated until every last possible bit of information had been extracted. Not that Haynes had ever had any intention of carrying out that particular order.
'No,' said Haynes, 'I agree, it doesn't. What could Light or Durrant say to a millionaire French businessman to make him kill himself? It's one thing trawling around the country bumping people off in their cars or their beds, although that in itself must have taken a lot of planning…'
'He had a lot of time to plan…'
'True. It still doesn't explain Larrousse. Nothing explains Larrousse.'
There's always an explanation, thought Jericho. This time the words didn't quite find themselves to his mouth.
'Maybe there's more to it…' he managed to say, and Haynes could tell that the voice was drifting away and that Jericho would likely not speak again for a while.
Jericho looked at Haynes, although for some reason he was beginning to fade. He meant to ask about something else, but he couldn't think what it was. Not this close, Hoagy.
Hoagy? Who was Hoagy?
The TV show, that was it. That was who he should ask about. All those television people, those bright young lives, cut down in their prime. Throats slit by Durrant. Where were they now?
Haynes watched as Jericho slipped back into sleep or unconsciousness or wherever it was he was going. He looked at the monitors into which he was plugged to make sure that everything seemed to be as it should be, then he walked to the door, asked the constable if she wouldn't mind getting him a cup of coffee, and returned to the seat beside Jericho's bed to sit and wait.
68
The show had to go on. That's what they would all have wanted.
Washington's face barely flickered when he was told the news. The usual instant calculations had gone through his head. What did it mean for the show?
The cameraman? There were plenty of others. Same for the soundman. Claudia and Morris? Television producers were like rabbits. When one got killed, there were another eight thousand of them waiting around the corner. The two police officers were of no interest, which left Xav, Ando and Cher.
Washington had smiled at the thought, but television reality contestants were like television producers, only ten-fold. For every Xav, Ando and Cher, there was a Stevo and a Mol and a Bex and a Shaz and a Maz and a Trace. And in particular, it had only been five days since they'd had Muzza and Gaz, and those two would only be too delighted to be brought back onto the show. Throw in one other contestant – and he immediately thought of Willow, the young African girl who'd been the best looking entrant to the competition, and who had blessed Washington with her love on more than one occasion – and they could have a show for that evening.
He himself hadn't gone anywhere, the ex-Sugababe and the hard-talking TV copper hadn't gone anywhere, the host was still in town, so who would really know the difference?
Was it in bad taste? Fucking right it was. Would even more people watch it than had watched it previously?
Of course.
*
The music was playing again. It kept playing. Haunting.
Was it haunting? It was just music, the same music that he'd listened to all his life. Maybe not all his life. He hadn't listened to it for the last thirty years, but it seemed to be back now. It seemed to be there, everywhere he turned.
Slowly his eyes began to focus, and as they did so the music faded. The room appeared before him. He moved his head, but as he did so, he felt sharp pains in his back and in his jaw and in his shoulder.
He sat still again. He'd been sleeping propped up against some pillows. The sheets and blanket that covered him were white. The walls of the room were white. He found that if he sat still the pain receded to a dull ache.
The sharp sting of pain had jolted him completely awake, however.
It was night time. The curtains were drawn, and it was obviously dark outside. There was a small light on beside his bed. He looked at the clock above the door.
2:47
He swallowed. His throat was dry. He realised there was no music playing. He must have been dreaming about the music. That seemed to be happening a lot recently.
He looked at the table to his side to see if there was some water. He didn't want to have to summon a nurse in the middle of the night, even though he knew there would be one on duty.
There was a small jug and one glass. An empty chair sat beside the bed. Jericho was aware that a variety of people had occupied that chair over the previous day or two.
Reaching out for the jug he realised there was a small envelope on the table. There was nothing written on the envelope. He lifted it, turned it over in his fingers. It wasn't sealed.
He lifted the flap. There was no letter or note inside, just a card.
He still wasn't thinking clearly, and thought nothing of it. Even when he looked at it, it did not send a shudder through him or make him wonder or make the hairs stand on the back of his head.
It depicted a skeleton riding on a horse. The skeleton was dressed in a long black robe, and carried a flagpole in its left hand. The flag was black and white but had a strange floral design. All around the horse, lying on the ground, were the dead. Kings and queens, lords and commoners. The dead were legion and stretched far into the distance.
The skeleton was looking out at Jericho and smiling.
He looked at the card for a few moments, then placed it back inside the envelope and slotted the envelope underneath his pillow.
He rested his head back against the pillow and looked straight ahead at the plain white wall before him. The clock read 2:49.
About the author
Douglas Lindsay is the author of the Barney Thomson crime series, which begins with The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson, and is currently seven novels and a novella (The End of Days) strong. He is also the author of Lost In Juarez and The Unburied Dead. You can read more about DCI Jericho in The Case Of The Stained Glass Widow. Douglas lives in Somerset.
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Also by Douglas Lindsay
Novels
Lost in Juarez
The Unburied Dead
Barney Thomson series
The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt
Murderers Anonymous
The King Was In His Counting House
The Last Fish Supper
The Haunting of Barney Thomson
The Final Cut
Novellas
The End of Days