We Are the Hanged Man (11 page)

When they got to the house they stood together in the kitchen while she poured them both a glass of white wine, the only alcohol she possessed. Jericho was not partial to white wine, but he was not destined to drink it in any case. Standing next to each other, they clinked glasses. She smiled awkwardly, as he took a sip. A mundane Chilean sauvignon blanc. Jericho couldn't have told the difference between that and a Louis Jadot Montrachet Grand Cru 2006. Although, neither could Light, and she drank white wine every night.

He laid the glass down on the kitchen worktop. A small kitchen, they were already close together.

'You're not a white wine drinker,' she said.

He shook his head. Imperceptibly they had moved closer. Their hands touched; they felt the thrill of it. He leaned towards her and they kissed. It had been growing, but suddenly Jericho was filled with lust, a feeling enhanced by knowing that she had brought him here with the same thought in mind. Grabbing her buttocks he pressed her body against him; she could feel his erection as her tongue tasted the wine on his lips.

The six contestants could have a private life if they wanted to for the last few weeks of the show. Their phones weren't hacked; they weren't followed anywhere when they went out unless it was apparent that they wanted to be. However, it was made clear to them from the minute they had made the Final 12 before Christmas, that it was to their benefit, as well as the show's, that they allowed media access to as much of their personal life as possible for the show's duration. And if private texts were sent and conversations had, e-mails dispatched and sex performed in the back of a car, that was even better. Controversy sells; and even though the producers would be quite adept at fabricating controversy should they need to, it would be even better if the contestants helped provide it.

However, on the Friday evening before the Weekend of The Long Knives Lorraine Allison had been given strict instructions from the man she thought was the Man from the Mirror, not to speak to anyone else, not to leak any texts, not to tell any of her friends. This was secret, this was all about her, and it was going to blow the competition away and put her at the top of class, ensuring not only that she made it into the last three, but that she had a head start for the final competition and, more than likely, a future career in the media and a host of other reality shows and their spin-offs.

And so she had time to reflect on how her hubris and greed and need for personal fame had led her into danger, as she travelled to the east coast, brutally bound and gagged in the boot of Durrant's car.

He knew nothing of the arrangements that had made Allison wait in her room for his arrival on the Friday evening. All he had were his instructions. Go to her room, grab her, stick her in the suitcase, put her in the boot of the car, take her back to the house and lock her in the interrogation room. Be as rough as you like.

He had been given no instructions on what to do with Lorraine Allison in the time between the kidnap and the point at which he murdered her, but those who had employed him had not done so because they thought he would feed her well, let her watch TV and take her for walks on the beach.

Durrant drove steadily down the A12, slower than on the way down to London, making sure that the police would have no reason to stop him. Allison lay curled in a ball in the back of a car. She had awoken not long after they'd reached the M25 and had not yet come to terms with her situation. She had not been bred for adversity.

She had been unsure of Durrant from the second she had opened the door. Something about him was not what she'd been expecting. She had hesitated. Durrant glanced along the corridor, then quickly reached out, grabbed her by the throat and dragged her into the room. Door shut, hand over her mouth as she tried to scream, and then a few quick and brutal punches to the head, neck and abdomen. Within five seconds she'd been lying on the floor, barely able to breathe, never mind scream. Helpless, the fight knocked out of her in an instant. Hands bound quickly behind her back and then, after he had gagged her and her ability to scream had been extinguished, he quickly and expertly broke each of her fingers in quick succession, just to make sure there would be no tampering with the bonds as she lay trussed in the car. She had fainted after the third finger. Then he had bent her legs into what would ultimately be a horrible and agonising position, strapped them into place, and roughly shoved her body into the suitcase.

Once in the boot, he had unzipped the suitcase and folded the lid back, had made sure that she was breathing all right, and then headed on his way.

Now that she was awake she was not contemplating the foolishness of her desire for media attention, nor was she blaming herself in any way whatsoever. She silently screamed, her head thrashed in panic, every fibre, every muscle, every nerve ached and shrieked. She had never been so scared, although ultimately, before she died, she would know an even more intense terror.

Falling asleep on Friday evening, Jericho anticipated that he would rise early on Saturday and get out of Light's house. Find a taxi and get home. Maybe get some more sleep, but more likely eat breakfast, shower and possibly walk out over the fields for an hour or two to give him some clear head time before the car came to take him up to London.

He was, Morris excitedly informed him, to be collected by a Daimler. Despite everything that had gone before, she had waited for him to be impressed.

Yet, Jericho was genuinely surprised when the Saturday morning came. He and Light lay in bed awake, slowly coming to, their bodies spooned together. Still dark outside, not yet seven a.m. Even so, Jericho had imagined being home by now, yet as he lay, becoming aroused at the feel of her naked body pressed against his, he had no desire to move. He was dreading this day, and yet he awoke feeling far more relaxed and positive than he usually ever did.

The phone rang, a juddering noise. Just after Jericho had started to run his hands over her stomach, his fingers making small circles; just as he had taken her left breast into his hand, his fingers enticing the hardening of her nipple. Light's mobile. She reached out, didn't even bother checking the number. Jericho withdrew his hand, eased his body an inch or two away from her. His erection still nestled against the base of her buttocks.

She barely said anything. Conversations at this time in the morning were always one-sided. She hung up, turned and lay on her back. Jericho eased away from her, also turning onto his back.

'One of the contestants has gone missing,' she said.

In silence they stared at the same spot on the ceiling. Lust still lay with them, but now there was going to be nothing they could do about it. He wanted to not care, and he wanted to know nothing about it, but immediately the implications and possibilities of the disappearance of someone from
Britain's Got Justice
flared in his head.

'Just the one?' he said after a while.

*

The scene at the
Britain's Got Justice
hotel was real life being played out splendidly for the cameras. It being one of the major weekends for the show, everyone involved was due to be in attendance anyway, but even if they hadn't been on call to work that day, nothing would have kept them away. A reality television show with an actual real-time crisis. There was a high-energy state of nervous excitement, adrenaline pumping through every vein, tears and shouting, anxiety and desperation. Everyone was delighted, though no one said so; no one would ever even admit it to themselves. They were centre stage, they could cry and shout and the cameras would be on them.

The five remaining contestants could quite legitimately worry about themselves, because they might well be next. The producers could quite legitimately be in a ferment because quite possibly the lies they'd spread about Lol could have led to her disappearance. Everyone who had got to know Lol could quite legitimately be upset, because hadn't they lost their new best friend?

Lol had been a friend to them all. A wonderful, warm, loving and caring character, quite at odds with the snarling, self-possessed, back-biting, posh bitch as portrayed by the media. Dear, wonderful Lol, the heart and soul of the show. The other five were happy to go along with this on the basis that she wouldn't be coming back; although every one of them suspected it was all a publicity stunt and that she would be back by the following afternoon, ready to sweep into the finals on the back of the nation's panic over her whereabouts.

'It's not about the show. It's not about us, the ones who are left. It's just about Lol, that's all we're concerned about. She is in our hearts and minds. All our thoughts and prayers are with Lol and her family.'

Jericho walked into this scene of desperate self-importance and those were the first words he heard. Spoken by one of the other contestants to the film crew who were shooting the behind-the-scenes footage for
Britain's Got More Justice
. The same words, or slight variations of which, were being said all around the building. By everybody.
It's not about me, it's about Lol.
Everybody was saying it and everybody else knew that it was absolute in its disingenuousness.
Lol, and my part in her disappearance
would have been more appropriate.

The officer leading the investigation into Lorraine Allison's disappearance was not particularly pleased to see the arrival of DCI Jericho, although he had heard he was coming. He had also heard that the DCI and his sergeant had been sniffing around the investigations into suspicious deaths in several areas outside of their patch. No one was impressed.

Jericho, for his part, had no intention of stepping on anyone's toes, but his presence alone was always bound to be enough to ruffle feathers.

Light had travelled with him and they had found their voices in the car. The original intention was that they should go straight to the studio, but events being as they were, they were taken to the hotel of tears and hysterics.

They were pounced upon by Hattie Morris on their arrival, and led through the veil of tears. People shouting, people rushing, some crying, some expressing rage, arguments in corners. Someone must be to blame.

'Welcome to the madhouse,' said DCI Tom Shackleton.

Jericho nodded, then turned away, and along with the others, surveyed the scene before them.

'You'll want to know everything?' said Shackleton.

Jericho shook his head, turned back to him.

'Not my patch, don't want to get involved,' he said. 'Just here for tonight's show.'

Shackleton didn't reply. Didn't believe him. Morris glanced at Shackleton with a raised eyebrow, which she lowered when she realised that Light was looking at her.

A man walked past in tears. Light recognised him as Xavier Yateras. Xav. Perhaps he was thinking about the following day's headlines.
Xav's Tears for Heroic Friend
.

'Take me to your leader,' said Jericho glibly to Morris, nodding at Shackleton as he walked on.

Durrant left it until late the following morning before checking up on Lol. He had strapped her naked to the old table in the back room. The one window in the room, which should have overlooked a small sandy field and a few houses in the distance, had been bricked up long ago. There were curtains on the outside of the brickwork, and still glass in the window so that it looked from outside like the curtains were drawn. The door was padded.

He liked to leave them to stew. Always had in the past, and would be no different in this latest incarnation of his serial killing life. Removing her clothes had been an entirely functional act based on common sense. She would be left in there long enough that at some point she would urinate and defecate, and he didn't want to deal with soiled clothes. He was quite happy to clean; he did not ultimately want to work in the foul stench produced by one of his subjects.

He had thought that seeing her naked would have no effect on him, but ever since he had undressed her late the previous evening, he could not get the thought of her naked body out of his head. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman, and somewhere along the line he imagined that desire and lust had become alien to him.

And so, while he had ignored the initial suggestion put to him that he could rape any of his victims, male or female, should the desire take him, he found himself thinking about it that night when he went to bed. He read a few pages of Kagan's
Peloponnesian War
, a book he was tackling for the third time, but could not concentrate. Thinking about her. She was young. Forty years younger than him, maybe. Very pale, soft skin. He had forgotten skin could be that soft. Even lying back on the table her breasts had looked wonderful. Firm, but natural. Dark nipples. He thought about her in his sleep; the thought was still there when he awoke.