by Will Harker
“Legends, whispers.” He tucked the phone away again. “Then, of course, there’s your family connection to the tragedy of Travellers Bridge, a tale that has always been a particular favourite of mine. It’s a wonderful coincidence, really, that you should have such a personal link to the matter in hand, as well as possessing the skills required to investigate the mystery.”
I sighed wearily. “Tell me why I’m here or we’re done.”
He indicated the armchair opposite. “We have much to discuss and you’re such a big fellow, looking up at you gives me quite a crick in the neck.”
Curiosity overcame my revulsion and I took a seat.
Putting an age to Campbell was difficult; he might have been anywhere between forty and sixty. His head was practically hairless and his unnaturally smooth chin reminded me of those prepubescent paintings in the hall. Paradoxically, his cadaverousness could have both aged or preserved his features, for although his brilliant blue eyes shone in the shadows of his cheekbones, there didn’t appear to be a single line in his waxy skin. Dressed more or less in black, like his housekeeper, the only hint of colour was the faintly violent shade of his lips. I wondered then whether rouging the master’s mouth was one of Miss Barton’s chores.
“You’re here,” said the professor, “because I sent for you. Apologies, by the way, for little Jeremy. I had tried writing but you seemed determined to ignore all communication from the outside world, and I simply had to get your attention.”
“You have it.” I twirled my finger. “Can we move on?”
“Certainly. But first,” those red lips pouted, “perhaps a little demonstration, just to sate my curiosity. So many stories told to the private detectives I sent to investigate you. Former colleagues on the force, students from your brief stint at university, your charming friends from that unsavoury period between uni and joining the force. All agreed you were quite the detective. And so, anything?”
Indented palms along the line of the thumb, deep but not the ingrained callosity of a lifetime pushing a chair. Although I didn’t want to please him, I’m a showman and we like to perform.
“You weren’t born disabled,” I told him. “What happened to you?”
He applauded. “Prison happened to me. They used my screams to drown out the horror of their own sins. For those with a conscience, I believe it’s how one survives such places. But then, you must know all about that. Anything else?”
I looked at him carefully. There was something amiss with his body language, a contradiction that seemed to constantly animate him. His upper torso would suddenly swell and thrust outwards, projecting his inert lower half in a way that clearly caused him discomfort. Then he would fall in on himself again, hunching over his lap as if cowed. He wanted to revel in being a victim and yet at the same time keep a part of it secret.
“It wasn’t chemical castration, was it?” I said. “The people who broke your bones, they did the job properly, didn’t they?”
His face went rigid. “Anything else, Mr Jericho?”
“Just one thing. You weren’t a professor of history.”
“Why do you say so?”
“The books.” I glanced at the groaning shelves behind me. “I know what a well-loved book looks like. Creases, dog-ears, shabby spines. All those are brand new, so what’s the game?”
“So very close to perfection, but I’ll have to give an upper second, I’m afraid. I am, or was, a history professor. As for the books? You know what the police do to one’s possessions during a search, especially those of a molester. After I came out of prison, I simply couldn’t bear the thought of those big, rough hands on my treasures. And so I bought a fresh set and sent the old books to storage. One day I plan to get some young fellow or other to transcribe my annotations. What a shame, I thought you’d have done your research.”
He was right, I hadn’t looked him up. It was a vice of mine which Garris had hated—an overreliance on cleverness and instinct without the proper attention to detail. I could only shrug.
“So I’ve failed, shall I go?”
“By no means!” Campbell smiled. “After all, we have yet to discuss yesterday’s murder.”
CHAPTER SIX
EVER STOOD ON THE EDGE of a building and been tempted to take that final step into oblivion? Freud called it Thanatos, the death drive. It’s that screw-the-risks instinct that makes chancers of us all and probably accounts for the fact that the human race isn’t still drawing stick figures on cave walls. I could feel something like it then—the near certainty that I was wading into lethal waters—yet still I leaned forward and asked:
“What murder?”
Campbell smiled, his face more skull-like than ever. “The third, of course. But we shall get to that.”
From under the open book on his lap, he produced a wireless clicker and thumbed a button. A huge image was suddenly projected onto the blank wall above the fireplace: a paparazzi shot of me and my old mentor exiting the station after our second interview with Lenny Kerrigan.
I knew the shot and the photographer well. After being assigned the Malanowski murders, Maxine Thierrot had hunted me throughout my bail period and, afterwards, lain in wait when Sal picked me up from HMP Hazelhurst a year later. She’d then hung around the fair for a week or two, catching the odd snap, until, despite her objections (some of the showmen had overheard her complaining on her mobile), her editor had pulled her from the gig.
I studied the photograph with a detached kind of interest, as if the tightly wound young man towering above me were a stranger. Beside me, Garris looked his usual haggard self, although he retained the cool stare for which he was renowned. Dressed in his usual attire of pinstriped trousers, paisley tie, and cream-coloured shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he looked like the kind of teacher that had died out a decade ago. The only thing that marked him out was the small tattoo on his left wrist; a single red poppy, it was a relic from his army days.
“Detective Constable Scott Jericho and DI Peter Garris,” Campbell said in a scholarly tone. “This is from almost two years ago, the last time they worked together. Despite a brilliant arrest record and swift promotion to CID, DC Jericho sabotaged his career, and almost derailed that of his friend, by violently attacking the prime suspect in the murder of the Malanowski family.
“At his trial, colleagues described Mr Jericho as intelligent, insightful, one of the best case-closers in the business, but also temperamental and abrasive. His only close friend, if we may call him such, was DI Garris, who spoke as a character witness. He considered Jericho the most gifted detective he had ever worked with, possessing an almost unique investigative mind.” The professor clicked again and another Maxine Thierrot shot appeared, this time a grainy picture of me leaving Hazelhurst. “The private detectives in my employ gathered quite a few juicy titbits about your time inside.” A red laser pointer played around my image’s mouth, appearing to turn my lips a similar shade to those of Campbell’s. “Did you enjoy it, I wonder?”
I gave him a shrug. “Were all your lectures this boring, Professor? I’m surprised the university waited for allegations of kiddie fiddling before firing you.”
His smile fell and he clicked again. “You’re quite right. The recent past is unimportant, but it’s my method to move from first principles and I thought you might find my summary enlightening. Never mind. Onwards. Do you know what this is?”
I stared up at the new picture that had appeared on the wall. “Are you telling me it’s real?”
The professor chuckled. “Yes, indeed. The entire fable.”
A frozen river now bubbled above the fireplace, spanning it, an old bow-backed bridge. It was uncanny. With arches and pediments cobbled together from irregular cuts of Kentish stone, this was the bridge I had always pictured in my mother’s bedtime story. Algae had crept up from the river and furred its legs in shades of green. Beyond, I could glimpse the calm meander of the water, caressed on all sides by heavy-headed will
ows. On the keystone was a plaque with a date that had been eaten away by the elements.
“Travellers Bridge,” I murmured.
“The second,” Campbell corrected. “The first had been medieval. This nineteenth-century version is an exact replica, built to the order of Mr Gideon Hillstrom, local landowner and mayor of the town of Bradbury End. It was raised with the aid of public subscription, and much was made at the time of the generosity of the Bradburians, with even the poorest widow donating a penny to the construction. The plaque reads: Erected in Memory of Those Showpeople Who Died Here When the Old Bridge Collapsed in the Great Storm. Acclinis Falsis Animus Meliora Recusat.”
‘“The mind intent upon false appearances refuses to admit better things.’”
“Very good,” the professor nodded. “From Horace, of course. I wonder what Mr Hillstrom and his fellow dignitaries meant by that quotation?”
I tapped my middle finger against my knee, wondering too. “I still don’t understand what all this has to do with a murder you say happened yesterday.”
“You will. Now, apart from my studies in Victoriana, I have a small side interest in what one might call the various subcultures that existed at the time. One of those being the Traveller community. Of course, there had been such peoples for centuries, going right back to the wandering minstrels and jongleur storytellers of the Dark Ages, but it wasn’t until the eighteen hundreds that the travelling fair as we know it came into being. And one of its highlights was, of course, the freakshow.”
I didn’t like him talking about my people. I might have rejected them half a lifetime ago, but they’d taken me back without question in my time of need. The fact this repellent man seemed to know more about them than me was disconcerting. He clicked again and continued.
“Matthew ‘Slip-Jointed’ Jericho.”
The projection of the old daguerreotype glowed against the plaster. My ancestor had been a contortionist, that I knew, but spectacle shows like his had died out years ago and I’d never seen one. Matthew was standing on his left leg, his right wrapped around his back, a big toe scratching the inside of his ear. Meanwhile, his arms were cranked upwards behind him, palms inverted towards the floor, fingers twisted at angles that made me want to look away. Matthew Jericho was little more than bone and, apart from the jut of his jaw and a mess of black curls, I couldn’t see much resemblance to me or my father.
Behind the showman stood a beautifully painted gaff card: ROLL UP! ROLL UP! JERICHO’S FREAKS – NOVELTIES, CURIOSITIES, WONDERS OF NATURE (HUMAN OR OTHERWISE), ALIVE, DEAD, OR DYING!
“There were others like him,” Campbell went on. “Tom Norman, the Silver King, exhibitor of the Elephant Man was probably the best. A much-maligned figure, as all the freakshow owners were. The truth was that many of these poor souls would’ve been sent to the workhouse or else starved in the streets, and most were as well paid as the showmen themselves.”
He was right about that at least. The depiction of the Traveller as a sadist who kept his unfortunate employees as beasts in a cage is, as far I know, an old lie. Most were treated as friends and family, and many commanded good salaries or else sold their services to rival companies. It was a way to survive in a time when survival was a day-to-day battle.
“Matthew’s show included some of the most spectacular acts of the day,” Campbell went on, and sped through a series of slides. “Gulliver Rice, the Balloon-Headed Horror.” Another faded daguerreotype, this time of a man with some kind of tumorous malformation of the skull. His smile was kind, his single visible eye twinkling with good humour. “Maria Landless, the Electric Lady.” A pretty young woman with painted-on sparks rippling from her fingertips. “Marguerite de Bellefort, the Fat Woman of Wimbledon.” A lady who almost blotted out the bay window in which she sat, her vast chiffon dress barely accommodating the breasts that hung to her ankles. “And finally, Charlie Buckley, the Dog-Faced Boy.” From his build, I guessed that this last was an adolescent of about fifteen. Apart from a few spare patches around the eyes and nose, coarse hair covered his entire face. I couldn’t tell whether Charlie had been a genuine sufferer of hypertrichosis, or ‘werewolf syndrome’ as it had once been known, or if he was Duff (noun: a fairground fake) created by Matthew Jericho.
“It was these five,” Campbell said, “including your ancestor, who died when the old bridge collapsed in Bradbury’s great storm.”
“In the versions I’ve heard, they were coming into the town for the hop-picking,” I said. “The fairs were doing badly at the time and showpeople provided cheap labour for farmers in the harvest.”
“That’s right,” the professor nodded. “At that time Jericho was travelling with Moody’s Fairground. Most of the showman loads had already made it to the far side of the bridge when Matthew’s wagon, carrying him and the rest of the freaks, started to cross. By this point, the rain had been falling hard for five solid days and the swollen river had already burst its banks. Eyewitnesses described hearing a terrible groan that seemed to dwarf the thunder. Through a veil of rain, they watched as the Bradbury-side pier gave way. The horse pulling the wagon shied, tipping its load onto the deck. Matthew was on his feet in an instant, grasping for the reins, when a hoof caught him across the brow and he dropped out of sight behind the parapet. The others rushed to help, but it was too late to save either Jericho or themselves.
“The bridge swayed drunkenly and seemed to turn ninety degrees so that its southern head now faced the flow of the river. The watchers on the bank swear they saw this, although it seems physically impossible. Whatever the truth, the old bridge came apart in an explosion of bricks and dust. When the air cleared, the bodies were gone, some pinned fathoms deep by the debris, others washed downstream where they’d be found a few days later. Only the horse remained, flailing and wild-eyed in the torrent.”
He had told it almost as well as my mother. The only difference was that her version had contained an evolving roster of fictional players whereas his described the real victims of the tragedy.
“Afterwards the bridge was rebuilt as I’ve described,” he continued, “and the locals took to calling it ‘Travellers Bridge’. So, tell me, Detective, did you find my story interesting?”
“You’ve painted a vivid picture, I’ll give you that,” I said.
“That’s only the beginning.” He treated me to a death’s-head grin. “Perhaps you should have that drink now, Mr Jericho.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I DON’T DRINK.”
“Oh, I think you will.” He chuckled, and clicked again.
The picture of Charles Buckley, the Dog-Faced Boy, was replaced with a crime scene photograph of a recently murdered monster. Unwittingly, I dropped my hand to the glass tumbler and took a deep gulp of bourbon. It stung my throat, settling me a little. Then I rose and, numb to the reach of the flames, stood in front of the fire. I stretched out my hand and touched the horror above.
“How did you get this?”
“I have my sources,” said Campbell. “Any information has its price, but what do you make of it?”
That was a question I didn’t want to answer, especially to this man who seemed somehow desperate not to be alone with his sin, but I’ll tell you, my first reaction was excitement. Here, crucified upon the wall, was a human being who had once held within his now desecrated body all the hopes and terrors of any normal life. Yet, in that instant, he was to me, a corner piece in a puzzle, the dim outline of which I was only just beginning to realise.
The fact he had been decapitated and that his head had been replaced might account for my detachment, I suppose. The victim looked unreal, like a fantastical figure plucked out of some dark fairy tale. Although the strange head that had taken the place of his own screamed for my attention, I forced myself to take in every other detail before the killer’s showpiece overwhelmed the rest.
The naked body appeared to have been lashed to the trunk of a tree, coarse rope secured around the legs and upp
er torso. His hands hung freely at his sides, and unless they had been untied later, my guess was that he’d died elsewhere and then been strung to the trunk. There were several ragged holes and a crusted bloom of blood over his heart, stains running under his armpits, which seemed to confirm that he had been killed while lying on his back.
I stepped closer to the wall, still insensate to the flames. Yes, his fingers were clotted with fresh dirt and I could imagine him gouging the earth in his short-lived agony. From the condition of the body, I guessed he had been in his late fifties, out of shape, with a pendulous beer belly that almost obscured his genitals, but strong with it. Those overdeveloped hand muscles belonged to a working man while his knees were padded over with hardened skin. An idea occurred to me and I turned to Campbell.
“Was this man a showman?”
“No,” he answered. “But I’d be interested to hear why you think so.”
“The physicality,” I said, returning my gaze to the wall. “Those callused knee joints, the slight slope and imbalance in his shoulder muscles, the strong calves. Travellers can get that way from continually siting their caravans, pushing against the sides with their preferred shoulder, getting on all fours and guiding the hitch into the coupling. He was left-handed anyway.”
“Very good,” the professor nodded, “but no. In life, this poor soul was Robert McAllister from Anglesey, North Wales. He had no connection with fairgrounds but he was the owner of the Sweet View Caravan Site that overlooks Benllech Bay, so your conclusions stand.”
Now that I had a name to personalise the victim, shame began to overwhelm my initial excitement. I moved on to the final detail. After death, McAllister’s head had been removed with clinical savagery. I pictured it: a shark-toothed saw clenched in a practised fist, the soft yielding of tissue as the edge began to bite and then find purchase in the muscle below. A small whistle of air as it cleaved through the cartilage of the Adam’s apple and entered the windpipe. Then, through secret ways, it plunged and, nipping the more or less drained jugular, released an undramatic dribble that barely stained the killer’s hand. On then, through the carotid, into vocal chambers where music once played, and finally the scrape and turn of the saw as it found a smoother path between the barrier of the spine. A little jiggling and prising, gripping McAllister’s hair and working his waxen head this way and that, and the job is done.