Killing Jericho: A Heart-Stopping Thriller (The Scott Jericho Crime Thrillers Book 1)

by Will Harker

  “I knocked. Called out. A shadow there, on the blind!” She pointed at the papered window, and I really believe, in that moment, she was seeing the killer again. “He was bending over something and when I knocked, he turned his head towards the door. I knew then that it wasn’t McAllister. McAllister never moved that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Patiently,” she said, her flaking brow creased again. “Considered. McAllister was a lazy man and like all lazy men was easily startled. This man moved through the world as if every surprise had been anticipated and planned for. His shadow paused only for a moment to pull on some kind of mask, and then he came to the door. Came to meet me.”

  A mask—the balaclava. I sat forward.

  “You didn’t see his face?”

  She hesitated, one crooked finger tracking down the side of her jaw.

  “Yes… I saw his face.”

  Forgetting myself, I took a breath and almost choked. “He removed the mask?”

  Miss Debney laughed. It was an awful sound, like the mad twittering of a caged bird.

  “There was no mask. Don’t you understand? What I saw on the blind, that was him pulling on his true face. There might have been something that looked human underneath, but that wasn’t him. He is the darkness and the emptiness and the void. He is anarchy and desolation and the unmaking of things. He is the space between stars. He greeted me on white wings and flew inside the doorway.”

  “Did he speak?”

  “Entropy does not speak. It unmakes words. It unravels meaning.”

  I closed my eyes in frustration. This was my second witness to the murderer and I could get no more sense out her than I could Webster.

  “Why didn’t he hurt you, Miss Debney? Why didn’t he unmake you too?”

  When I opened my eyes again she was gripping her wrist and holding it out to me. “He saw that I saw, and so he did this,” she said, clasping the joint. “He did this he did this he did this. And his white wings were stained red and his hands were dark and his face was true. Not even the Conqueror Worm may claim him, for he is the worm and will feast until he is gorged. Do not think you can stop him. If you dare to try, he will wrap his wings about you and unthread your life until it lifts away like bits of string upon the wind.”

  She sank back into her armchair, her hand still clutching that bony wrist. “Do not bring him back here, Mr Jericho. Do not make me see him again. Even Edgar is afraid of him…”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  BEFORE HEADING BACK to Bradbury End, I let Webster out for a run along the beach. I say ‘run’. The poor old boy plodded along beside me, snuffling at the sand. When some kids hurtled by dragging a kite, he looked up and gave them a few fierce barks. Still a fairground juk at heart. I reassured them that he was soft as butter and they were all soon making a ridiculous fuss of him.

  I watched on, memories of Webster the pup—my mum and I throwing sticks for him on the heath. Those ghosts, almost as real to me as the Malanowski children who now stood watching me from the road. I met Sonia’s gaze as she reached down and took her little brothers’ hands. Then I turned back to the sea.

  Lost as she was, Miss Debney had seen the killer. His face—the desolation, the void, the balaclava mask; his dark gloved hands. His wings? What had she actually witnessed in that doorway? Only one thing seemed certain: I had been wrong. Yes, I had guessed that he had his rules, that the five Jericho victims would be his ultimate masterpiece, but I had also imagined that he must take some pleasure in sadism. Yet, here was a witness, one he could easily dispose of if he’d chosen to, and he had let her live. Did that suggest that the physical deaths of the five, even their desecrations, were unimportant to him? That there was some other purpose these murders might be serving?

  All I knew was that Miss Debney’s survival had offered me a scrap of comfort: my family and my friends were safe. I did not believe the killer would come for them.

  It was a five-hour drive back to Bradbury End. I arrived at Harry’s just as a car was pulling up to the curb. Spotting the Nissan Accord, I felt a mixture of trepidation and relief. Face to face, I knew I didn’t have a hope of keeping the case from DI Pete Garris, and although part of me yearned for his insight another feared his intrusion. Unlike me, he was still a real detective after all.

  I leaned over and opened Webster’s door. He jumped out, circled Garris twice, then went to relieve himself behind Harry’s hedge. I got out myself, unkinked my neck, and looked over at my old boss.

  “What are you doing here, Pete?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” He put his hands into his jacket pockets and glanced up at the sky. “If you’ve got anything to do with it, probably destroying my career. But I think it’s time we talked.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I LIKE WHAT YOU’VE DONE with the place,” Garris said, glancing around the trailer. “Looking less like a hellhole fit to die in, anyway.”

  I handed him a mug of strong black coffee. Thank God he hadn’t asked for milk—I wasn’t ready to share the contents of my fridge with him just yet. That little cardboard box could wait. I went and sat on the opposite side of the locker settee while Webster collapsed in the space between us.

  “All Sal’s work,” I said. “Did you ever meet Sal Myers?”

  He smoothed down his tie, his poppy tattoo winking from under his cuff. Honestly, he must have stocks in whatever company produced those paisley horrors. “Your bosom friend of childhood? Yes, I bumped into her a couple of times when dropping off those case files you never look at. She seemed worried about you. Although…” His washed-out blue eyes moved across my face. “You appear to be doing better. Which begs the question: why have I had your old man on the phone asking me to check in on you?”

  “Like Sal, he’s a worrier.”

  “But it isn’t only you that he’s concerned about. He senses that this case you’ve taken on has the potential to spill over and harm the Travellers.”

  “I’ve told him–”

  Garris held up his hand. “Tell me. Then, if I’m satisfied, perhaps I can get him to back off.”

  I sighed. It was time anyway. I needed a fresh perspective and there was none better than Garris’. I took out my notebook and started flicking back through the pages.

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “How do you find the epicentre of an explosion?” He spread out his hands. “You trace inwards from the devastation. You told me you were in Bradbury End and so, after a late-night chat with Pa Jericho, I set out first thing. The first natural port of call for a policeman is the local cop shop. I met a couple of officers who had encountered your charming manners only yesterday. They said they’d seen you talking to a librarian. Not difficult to find his address.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his well-thumbed notebook. “Harry Moorhouse. I know that name, don’t I?”

  There’s a lesson here: when discussing cases after work in a confidential nook of The Three Crowns, keep it strictly business. Especially if your confidante is a teetotaller with a photographic memory. God, those boozy chats. I’m not even sure why I used to spill my guts to him; it wasn’t as if Garris ever offered me much in the way of sympathy. Perhaps that was the reason. He filled the role of a kind of father confessor, promising neither absolution nor resolution, just allowing me the space to talk.

  “The boyfriend from Oxford, right?”

  I nodded.

  Garris put away his notebook and stretched his arms along the back of the settee. “I believe you told me once that he–”

  “That was in confidence.”

  “Off the record. Yes, I remember. Don’t look so frightened, Scott, I have enough sadistic pieces of shit on my plate. I’m not interested in pursuing some poor boy who put a loved one out of his misery. I can understand that temptation myself. Good God, I can.”

  In all our years together, there had been only a handful of times when I’d glimpsed the man behind the copper
. I was probably the closest thing Garris had to a friend on the force, and yet our relationship outside work had been almost exclusively a one-way street. I talked, he listened. But just occasionally that impassive, professional mask slipped.

  “How is Harriet?” I said quietly.

  “Much the same as when you asked forty-eight hours ago… Only, no. That’s not true. She’s worse; yellow with it and pain like you wouldn’t believe. I think we both know that it’ll only be a matter of time before I have to abandon her to that bloody hospice.”

  “You won’t be abandoning her, Pete. You’ve done your best.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said. “I have nothing to reproach myself for. There are just some killers that can’t be hunted down and put behind bars, that’s all. But let’s get back to it. I think you have a story to tell.”

  In the end, it didn’t take as long I’d imagined. From Jeremy Worth’s introduction to Campbell to my interview that morning with Miss Debney, I placed everything before Garris, including my hazy theories as to the killer’s motivations. My former mentor listened as he always had, not a hint of his thoughts crossing his features.

  “OK,” he said as I finished up. “Let’s start with what I think is an assumption on your part: that your ex-boyfriend just happens to be on the scene of a series of murders connected with your family history. When you were together, did you ever discuss the story of the Jericho freaks with him?”

  “Maybe.” I crossed my arms. “I don’t know. You’re talking over a decade ago.”

  “So you’re saying his presence here is a coincidence? I thought I’d taught you to be suspicious of coincidences. Let’s imagine for a moment that he is your ‘outside suspect’, by which I mean he’s not a showman nor a long-time resident of Bradbury End. He became fixated with the story you told him. There are unresolved issues between you. He has killed before–”

  “You said yourself that Harry’s was a mercy killing,” I cut in. “His father was in agony and was going to die soon anyway. The humanity behind that act doesn’t fit the MO of these murders. And anyway, Harry had only just left me last night when I saw the killer across the street.”

  “If he had an accomplice–”

  “No. Pete, I know him. Harry could never–”

  “You knew him,” Garris corrected. “People can change a great deal in ten years; you know that better than anyone.”

  I shook my head, pushing away memories of the man I had been when Garris first met me. “Harry is the same person he was back in Oxford,” I insisted. “I’d know if he was capable of this sort of evil.”

  “Perhaps. It’s true that you can read people better than anyone I’ve ever worked with.” He stated it not as a compliment but as a plain matter of fact. “All right then, let’s assume your personal feelings are not clouding your judgement. Another coincidence needs to be considered. Your father tells me that a certain far-right child-killer has been making your life a misery. Do you think Kerrigan could be involved?”

  I hesitated. “I think he may have a role. But the whole feel of the case is wrong for Kerrigan. The victim selection, the theme of the recreations, the care taken over the staging of the bodies. Kerrigan’s a vicious thug; he doesn’t have the brains or patience for this sort of thing.”

  “Again, what do we think of him as an accomplice?”

  “Why would he?” I said. “And anyway, what advantage could he be to the killer?”

  “As a way to distract you?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But look, Kerrigan started turning up at the fair long before I became involved in the case. The timing just doesn’t work. And although it’s true that he told me I was in for a surprise—that he’d played me somehow—every mention I’ve made of the murders he’s interpreted as a reference to the Malanowski case. Anyway, forget that piece of trash for a minute. There’s something I need you to see.”

  I went to the fridge and returned with the cardboard box. I let Garris open it, peeling back the greaseproof paper with the tip of his pen. His eyebrows raised only a little when he saw the contents.

  “From your summary, I’m assuming this is a piece of Adya Mahal?” I nodded and, after sniffing the bleached paper, he returned the box. “I’m sorry, Scott, I have to report this.”

  “But what is there to report?” I asked. “You know as well as I do there won’t be any forensics to be gleaned from it. All I have is a useless piece of physical evidence and the ramblings of a convicted paedophile. Apart from the initials of the bridge inscription left on the bodies, there is nothing to link these victims, either to each other or the historical tragedy. What I’ve told you are all supposition and theories. But if you can look me in the eye and say that an official investigation, started right now, is more likely to yield results than me working alone, I’ll happily hand it over.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fingers worrying at that paisley atrocity around his neck.

  “Come on, Pete. Give me three days. If I’ve got nowhere by then, you can take it off my hands.”

  That inscrutable gaze again. I did my best not to look away. I knew that whatever decision he made, sentiment would play no part in it.

  “You’ve changed,” he said at last. “Or maybe what I mean is, you’ve come back. I suppose I’m only sorry that none of the cases I brought you worked that miracle. If you want to know the truth, Scott, the way things were going after you got out of prison, I thought you’d be dead within the year. I’m not usually one for regrets. Wishing you might have acted differently is the ultimate waste of time. But I do regret making you lead interviewer on the Malanowski case. Within a couple of years, I might have trained you to control your emotions better, but your temperament was not suited to dealing with scum like Kerrigan.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, sir,” I murmured.

  Something I’d said to Sal came back to me then; words spoken when she’d warned me that, if I went back inside, I’d probably end up dying there. “In there, out here, what’s the difference?” I had known myself that guilt and anger were killing me by degrees; now things had changed.

  “I’ll give you your three days.” Garris sighed. “Make good use of them.”

  “I will.”

  We went to the small dining table and I spread out the crime scene photographs. “So, any thoughts?”

  Garris traced his finger across the letter ‘A’ carved into McAllister’s forehead. “You said these represent the initials of the inscription on Travellers Bridge. Remind me.”

  “Acclinis Falsis Animus Meliora Recusat. The mind intent upon false appearances refuses to admit better things.”

  “What is he trying to tell us with that?”

  “Isn’t it just a way of linking the victims to the tragedy?” I asked.

  “Perhaps. But a ‘mind intent upon false appearances’. Is there something beneath the superficial staging of these murders? Some deeper meaning beyond a psychopathic obsession to recreate the Jericho freaks? Even madmen have their motives, Scott.”

  “Do you mean a hatred of people who society perceives as different?” I wondered aloud. “Maybe he has a deformity himself and projects his self-loathing onto his victims?”

  “Or he sympathises with them and it’s an act of revenge.” Garris shook his head. “But I didn’t really mean that either. Don’t you get the feeling that there’s a purpose behind all of this bloodshed? Something separate from the acts of murder and mutilation? I think your idea that he takes no pleasure in any of this could be true. There’s a functionality to it all that shines through.”

  “I don’t know whether that’s particularly comforting,” I said.

  Garris gave me a long look. “Oh, it’s not comforting at all. It’s profoundly disturbing. And unless you catch him, I think much worse horrors are to come.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “HAVE YOU CONSIDERED CAMPBELL himself as a suspect?” Garris asked.

  “Briefl
y,” I admitted. “But look, that job the other cons did on him, damaging his spine? I don’t think he’d even have the strength to overpower a pensioner like Agatha Poole, let alone a working man like McAllister. Plus.” I pointed to a black and white shot of Adya Mahal’s flat in Lincoln. “Three storeys up and the lift was out of order the night Adya died. There’s just no way.”

  “‘The mind intent upon false appearances,’” Garris quoted at me.

  “You’re suggesting that, because I’d think such a punishment was fitting for a man like Campbell, he played up to it somehow? Made his condition appear worse than it actually was?”

  “He knew all about the Malanowski case, didn’t he? How you served up what you thought was justice to Kerrigan?”

  I felt my insides tighten. “Then he was taking a big fucking risk inviting me to his house. Anyway, we know he can’t have been putting it on. You sent me the details of his injuries.”

  “Perhaps he’s made a miraculous recovery.” Garris gave a wry smile. “Unless he has an accomplice, of course. Often in cases where two killers act in concert, there will be a dominant personality and one that watches on. A kind of voyeur to the sadism. We’ve considered whether Kerrigan could be involved, perhaps Campbell paid him to live out his twisted fantasies? Or indeed this Miss Barton. Do you think she’d be physically capable?”

  I thought back to the small, scarred woman who had led me through Campbell’s paederast gallery. Had her quiet revulsion been an act? I didn’t think so, but a mind intent upon false appearances…?

  “She might have the strength,” I admitted. “I believe Adya was drugged before she was killed, and if Miss Barton took McAllister by surprise? But you’re talking about a kind of devotion that goes beyond anything I’ve ever heard of.”

  “It’s love,” Garris said bitterly. “If you’d been in CID a little longer, you might have seen the degradations love can lead to. We don’t know what history these two have together, but she’s been with him since he was a little boy. Most successful marriages don’t last that long. But OK, I admit the MO is completely different from Campbell’s past crimes and the physical limitations do seem to rule him out. So we’re back to someone in the travelling community or a Bradbury resident. It’s such an obscure story it’s unlikely someone other than Campbell stumbled upon it and became obsessed.”