We Are the Hanged Man (16 page)

'You know, Cher,' said Washington, speaking directly to her, 'we haven't always seen eye to eye on this show,' and she nodded, and even that elicited a few whoops from the audience, whoops that would have been even louder had they known that Washington and Cher had seen eye to eye on very many occasions in hotel bedrooms during the previous few weeks, 'but I have to put my hand on my heart and say – and I mean no disrespect to either Xav or Ando at this point – that I think what you just showed us here tonight puts you a decent way in front of the others already.'

The audience went mental, Cher gushed, Xav and Ando looked stoic; albeit, Xav actually looked like he might be about to burst into tears, which wasn't so stoic really.

Eventually the tumult died down. The camera stayed on Washington, because everyone knew he still had the stick. He waited, let the tension start to build. Someone in the audience went rogue and whooped, which allowed Washington to milk his silence for a little longer as the consternation showed on his face. Finally, ready to inject even more tension into proceedings, he turned slowly to his right.

'Chief Inspector?' he said, looking along the desk.

Jericho glanced back along the line. A quick glance at the ex-Sugababe and hard-nosed TV copper showed that they both felt detached and undermined. The audience waited, sensing the drama implicit in the confrontation between these behemoths of their respective professions.

'Surely that's the kind of thing that you absolutely love to see in a fellow officer? The drive, the determination, the channelled aggression?'

The audience started cheering again. Jericho waited for them to be quiet before talking. Well, in fact he had no intention of saying anything. Anticipating his silence, Washington was ready with his next question.

'It must have been the kind of thing that you saw in your wife when you first fell in love?'

A low hoot of anticipation grew around the audience. The sullen man who had sat saying nothing for the better part of two days was being drawn out. The question would be reported the following day in the Mirror with the words:
Washington stabbed a syringe into the boil in an attempt to extract some of the poison
.

Jericho did not take his eyes off him. Some would analyse and say there was hatred in his stare, but in truth there was nothing.

'Some of you may remember the Chief Inspector losing his wife a few years ago,' said Washington, grabbing the awkward silence by the throat. 'Quite literally,' he added, although he looked sincere as he said it, so that no one thought he was making a joke. If he was going to play the man for everything he could, he didn't want the audience on Jericho's side. 'I think we all really respect him for coming on here this weekend and for agreeing to do the show for the next week, knowing how hard it must be for him to appear in the public eye once again.'

He half glanced at the audience and they followed his lead by erupting into sympathetic applause for the poor, sad Chief Inspector who had lost his wife. Quite literally.

And when Jericho said nothing in reply, and expressed no gratitude towards Washington for his display of concern, it would practically be incumbent on the audience to feel sympathy for Washington, and to wonder whether Jericho was worthy of the man's compassion.

Haynes travelled back down to Wells early on the Sunday afternoon; Light had remained with Jericho, in an advisory capacity for the show, and they travelled together back to Wells on Sunday evening, sitting in the rear of a Jaguar, laid on by the show's producers.

They said nothing all the way down the road. Light felt like it was the uneasy silence of a lovers' argument. She would have been surprised to know that Jericho thought the same thing. She still did not know him well enough to realise that those thoughts ran through his mind, insecurities and distractions played themselves out in his head as much as in anyone else's; that the man behind the baleful exterior was not so much different from any other.

They came to Light's house first. When they had stepped into the car together she had wondered whether she would find herself inviting him in at the other end. By the time they got there it was quite out of the question.

They exchanged a glance and a nod as she stepped out, and then the door was closed and Jericho laid his head back and felt the tension ease from the car.

A short while later he felt the release of walking into his own home. Stood in the hall for a few moments enjoying the stillness. Left his bag at the foot of the stairs, went to the toilet, then walked into the kitchen. Turned on the kettle, leant back against a kitchen worktop while it boiled. An old kettle on a gas hob. He put in too much water, took almost seven minutes to boil. It used to drive Amanda nuts, the fact that he never allowed her to get an electric kettle. As if the quality of the tea was better for the longer boiling time.

He waited; he stared at the floor. Finally the whistle blew and he poured the water into the mug.

The heating had turned itself off a couple of hours before he'd got home, but the sitting room hadn't cooled down too much. He turned on a small side light and sat down in his favourite chair. He didn't reach for the television remote; he didn't pick up a book or a magazine; he didn't have any handy device on which to access the internet.

He sat in silence. His actions could have been those of Durrant. Although it had been a long time since he'd thought of him. Not so long until he would think of him again.

You're just like me.
That was one of the few things that Durrant had ever said to him.
You're just like me.

Jericho hadn't liked it, but then that had been because he'd known it was true.

The walls around him were lined with books. The television, something he only ever utilised for sport or news, sat silently in the corner. The photograph of Amanda, which came and went from the mantelshelf, looked down at him, smiling from a cold beach in Suffolk in the spring of '99.

He would sit there until he knew he was about to fall asleep. And then he would drag himself up the stairs to bed. The contentment of his own company. No one to please, no one to judge or to judge him. How many hours did he spend sitting in this room, in this position, the cup of tea quickly drunk before it cooled, his hands resting in his lap?

How many hours?

By the time he took himself to bed, it was early Monday morning, gone two o'clock. He would look at the clock before falling into bed and regret sitting there so long; yet he needed it most days, and certainly after the weekend he had endured.

He partly unpacked his bag in the upstairs hall. Tossed the dirty washing into a pile, lifted his toothbrush and mouthwash, went into the bathroom. Emerged a few minutes later, into the bedroom. It was cold in there, as he never turned the heaters on, and he had left the curtains open. He stood at the window looking out over the fields, which had been frosted white when he'd left and were so again.

A beautiful clear night. He shivered and turned away. He really did have to get to bed. The ordeal in London may have been bad, but he was about to face a week being followed around by a television camera, accompanied by a series of barely post-pubescent over-enthusiastic television desperados.

He got into bed, pulled the cold covers up and laid his head back on the pillow. He felt something beneath his head and sat up. The room was bright, and although he couldn't see the picture, he could at least make out that a small card had been left lying on the pillow. Awaiting his return.

He felt the hairs start to rise on the back of his neck, fear begin to wrap its fingers around his stomach. He reached over and turned on the light, and now properly illuminated, the grinning figure of the skeleton, the Hanged Man, looked up at him.

He could hear it speaking to him.
Fuck you, Chief Inspector. I know what's happening, and you haven't a clue. I've been in your house, and you didn't know.

In the background the country house had edged noticeably forwards; the look on the grinning face had turned even more mocking and threatening.

*

'We should get round there,' said Haynes. 'Get the SOCOs in.'

Jericho shook his head. The card lay on the desk between them.

'Why not? I know you assume he's going to have been thorough, but he might have left some trace, no matter how small. There's always the chance.'

Jericho nodded.

'I know,' he said. 'Two things. We're getting a feeling for this guy, and that feeling is he's professional and he absolutely knows what he's doing. Every step of the way so far, he's played it perfectly. He's got us chasing our arse. He's not going to have made a mistake…'

'Everyone makes mistakes.'

'Yes, they do,' said Jericho. 'In this case, however, I'm still not ready for this to be a story. I don't want anyone talking about it other than you and me. We get any SOCOs over there, people are going to be asking questions. Dylan's going to be asking questions. I'm not having that, and especially not now that the media have rediscovered my existence.'

Haynes nodded. 'Let me do it, at least,' he said.

Jericho briefly considered the implications of Haynes going over his house with a microscope. Occasionally he had women over there, and there might still be evidence of one or two of them – and the place probably wasn't as clean as it should be – but what did any of that matter? Haynes wasn't his mother.

He waved a dismissive hand.

'All right. You might as well go down there now. The TV people will be here in the next ten minutes.'

He checked his watch. 'Yep, go now,' he added.

'OK. I won't take too long.'

He stepped towards the door.

'Sergeant.'

Haynes stopped and raised a questioning eyebrow. Jericho hesitated.

'You know, you'll probably find evidence of some women. Having been in the bedroom. Haven't cleaned in a while...'

He ran out of explanation, waved his hand again.

Haynes nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him. He allowed himself a smile when he got to the other side.

There was a knock and the door opened. Light caught the quick movement as Jericho calmly collected up the four cards that had been facing him on the desk and placed them in his pocket.

'You ready, Sir?' she asked. 'We're needed downstairs.'

Jericho nodded. They shared a glance; she began to close the door.

'Sergeant,' he said, and she could tell there was a different quality to his voice. 'I'm sorry about the weekend. I don't want you to think… after Friday night…'

'It's all right, Sir.'

'It's just the show. I…'

He ran out of words. What exactly was he trying to say anyway? He wasn't taking it for granted that she'd want to sleep with him again; he hadn't even thought about whether or not that might happen. The minute he'd raised the subject, however, it had been implicit.

'Really, it's OK.'

She forced a smile then left, closing the door. It opened again almost immediately, Jericho still sitting in the same position, his hands resting on the cards in his pocket.

'Really, Sir, it's fine,' she said again, instantly more relaxed. 'And you'd better come. I've to escort you down.'

She stood waiting for him. The awkwardness of the weekend between them had passed in the moment; all it had taken was for her to come back into the room. She could sense him relax, pleased perhaps to have someone back on his side. He drained a cold cup of coffee and pushed himself up off his seat.

'Right,' he said. 'What are we looking at?'

She led him through the open plan office towards the stairs. No one looked at them. No one knew there was anything worth gossiping about.