We Are the Hanged Man (51 page)

Jericho lowered the cup. It was unlikely that he would have been able to display any expression given the bandaging, but he was giving nothing away.

'Can you talk?' she asked.

Given that he had already asked what day it was, that seemed to be a given. He didn't need bandaging over his face to stop him talking, it happened naturally.

'Speak to Sergeant Haynes. You're not being officially questioned yet, but we need to start sorting out various things here.'

She stared at Jericho for a while longer, but as usual she could feel her blood pressure rising at his awkward and bloody silence. She felt no sympathy for his condition, just annoyance that it might get in the way of an investigation.

She looked down at him again, once more not enjoying a situation as much as she'd thought she would, then she turned and walked quickly from the room, closing the door sharply as she went.

The two men felt a palpable lightening of the mood as she left, then Haynes pulled up the chair that the constable had been using and sat down beside the bed.

'Get you anything else?'

Jericho laid his head back against the pillow – although he was still sitting upright – and made a small gesture with his eyes to say no.

'Sergeant Light…?' he said.

'She was dead when the ambulance arrived.'

Jericho looked away from him, his eyes drifting down to the end of the bed. He had never killed anyone before, and hadn't particularly been trying to on this occasion.

He had punched her in the throat. That was something that was only usually done with intent.

'She tried to kill me,' he said, justifying the answer to a question that Haynes had not asked.

'I tried to call,' said Haynes. 'We discovered a connection between her and Durrant. While he was in prison he produced a book about Tarot cards. Nothing much, an insignificant work. Under an assumed name. Hoagland. However, the forward was written by Rebecca Light.'

Jericho looked at him curiously, his eyebrows knitted beneath the bandaging.

'My contact at the British library. She called me yesterday morning. I was a bit of an arse, should have taken her call earlier. She worked it out. Didn't know who Durrant was, of course, or Hoagland, but had heard Sergeant Light's name on the news. Thought it too much of a coincidence. I tried to get hold of you, but I guess you were already out there. I don't know. How did you end up at Durrant's house? How did you know where to go?'

Jericho held his gaze for a moment and then looked away again. That was the question. How on earth, in all the places in the United Kingdom, had he managed to end up in the same small village as Durrant? Where he himself had gone on holiday all his life, and where Durrant had kept his murderous house all those decades he'd been in prison.

How had that happened?

You're just like me
.

Jericho shook his head, then winced.

'I don't know,' he said. 'Tell me about her.'

'She was a prison guard in Broadmoor. Befriended Durrant. I can't… Spoke to the deputy governor there again last night. Still a wanker, but a bit more forthcoming. Had had a day to accept that his career's fucked. At least, you'd think. Durrant and Light formed some sort of relationship over the course of a few years, but he said it never seemed to be anything especially abnormal. They all liked Durrant… he didn't cause trouble. Durrant was a prolific scholar while inside. Published no end of papers and articles and books. She helped him sometimes. He didn't know that they'd kept in touch when she transferred to the police.'

'How did she end up in Wells?'

'We don't know yet. Judging from the house, all those cards 'n' shit… It looks like Durrant was behind all the cards or he had someone doing it for him…'

He meant Sergeant Light, but didn't say it.

'And presumably he was behind the deaths of all your… I don't know, relatives…. whatever you want to call them. He got out of prison looking for you, and she helped him. Maybe she didn't realise exactly what kind of man he was. Although…. They started dying, you got that first card, before he was released…'

He'd been going to say more, but his lack of understanding of what had happened dragged him to a halt.

'She tried to kill me,' said Jericho. 'She could have had others killed.'

Haynes nodded.

'There'll need to be an investigation into how Durrant got let out of prison, but you can bet your arse the media won't get to know about it. Won't even know that he just got released.'

'So why did you think it was Dylan?'

'Her name was all over it. Letters, various communications with the Deputy Governor, but always her contacting him, as he was never happy about it. She looked genuinely confused when I told her about it. And then pissed off. They've traced the paperwork back to the station; looks like it was Light's work all along.'

Jericho stared at the end of the bed. He had been concentrating for a short while, but suddenly it was starting to go again. Already. Why could he only concentrate for a few minutes? What was the matter with him?

'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.

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.

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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