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

by Will Harker

  “Some old girl out doing her shopping found you in the alleyway,” Dad went on. “Half-scared her to death, so I heard. Do you remember what happened?”

  “Kerrigan,” I muttered.

  Dad lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Might have known. Had that rally today, didn’t they? How did you get yourself mixed up in all that? Playing the hero again or was it something to do with this mysterious case of yours?” When I didn’t answer he gave me a knowing nod. “Keep your secrets then.”

  “I wonder why he stopped?” I said after a moment’s silence.

  “Maybe he got scared, seeing how bad he’d hurt you. Or else someone disturbed him. Whatever the reason, what he did today won’t stand. I told you once that we have ways of calming an animal like that right down. You leave him to us now, son.”

  “Dad, I don’t think–”

  Shaking his head, my father stood. “I said leave him to us.”

  There was something in his eyes, an anger I’d only seen a couple of times before. I wondered if others had seen the same thing in me in recent years.

  “What happened to you today?” I asked. “We came looking for you at the fair but nobody knew where you were.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “I had some business to take care of.”

  “What business?”

  “None of yours, is what.”

  I could tell that was the only answer I was likely to get. “Is my mobile here?” I asked, scanning the over-bed table and bedside cupboard. “I need to speak to Garris, and there’s somebody else I have to call.”

  “They’re both here,” Dad said. “The old gavver’s just parking his car and the boy’s grabbing us some coffees.”

  I stared at him. “You’ve met Harry?”

  “He gave Sal his number today.” Dad nodded. “So when she heard what had happened, she called him. Seems like a nice joskin. Your boyfriend too, I take it?”

  Although I’d come out to my father just before my twentieth birthday, I had never introduced him to anyone I’d dated. In fact, after that awkward, stilted confession in his trailer, the subject had hardly ever been mentioned again. In this day and age, I wasn’t the only openly gay Traveller, but for the most part, our existence, while tolerated, wasn’t discussed or even acknowledged all that much. This was one of the rare times my dad had referred to it.

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  “Sal said you met him back in Oxford. So you what, stayed in touch? Reconnected?”

  “Something like that. Look, I–”

  A hand tugged at the curtain and a face appeared in the gap.

  “Can I come in?” asked Zac. He glanced over at me, his expression a muddle of fear and concern. My dad clapped the chap on the shoulder.

  “Don’t look so scared, sonny. He’s not as bad as he looks.”

  “Dad, can you give us a minute?” I asked.

  The old man shot me a questioning glance. “Sure. I’ll go and find that boy with my coffee. He’s must’ve walked all the way to Colombia to get it.”

  I beckoned Zac to pull up the chair to the side of my bed. He did so reluctantly, his gaze landing everywhere except my face. Patches of oil and dirt stained his vintage Spice Girls T-shirt, evidence of a full day’s hard labour on the fairground. Fresh sweat plastered the cotton to his torso and my guess was that, hearing the news, he’d run all the way here. He kept raking shaky fingers through those blonde-streaked locks until I reached over and took his wrist.

  “You told Kerrigan I was going to Bradbury End,” I said gently. “That’s how he found me at the diner. Kept his eyes open all the way and just happened to glimpse my Merc in the car park. Zac, why?”

  I let go of his wrist and he finally looked me in the eye. “Because I liked you. I really liked you, Scott. And I know you think I’m just some stupid kid with a crush, but sometimes after we had sex and we’d just lie there for a while and you’d talk to me…” A tear tracked down the side of his face. He brushed it angrily away. “I don’t have a great home life. My mum’s OK but my dad? He takes this weird delight in belittling me. Nothing I do, nothing I achieve is ever good enough for him. I worked so hard to get into law school because that’s what he wanted, but then when my acceptance to Warwick came through all he could say was, ‘Shame it wasn’t Oxbridge.’ So this summer I decided to cut all ties. I couldn’t take it anymore—the undermining, the snide comments. It broke my mum’s heart, but if I’d stayed in that house, I don’t know what would have happened between us. Anyway, I found work on the fair and for the first time in my life, I saw what a real family does for each other. The love, the support. I’m not sure you appreciate this, Scott, maybe because you were born into the life, but that’s what Travellers are to each other. Family. And then I met you. This strong, beautiful, damaged man who spoke to me without judging everything I said. I felt at home here. Felt at home with you. And then one day you just up and disappeared on me.”

  I remembered the text he’d sent that morning: Sal told me you’ve gone on ahead to Bradbury. Thanks for saying goodbye. You’re a fucking arsehole, Scott.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I honestly thought you were better off without me.”

  “So you decided to blank me. Ghost me.”

  I nodded. “And that’s why you contacted Kerrigan? To get back at me?”

  “He’d been lurking around the fair for a couple weeks, asking a few of the chaps if they’d let him know your movements. I don’t know why. He was offering good money, so they said. After you left without a word, I was just so angry. It was easy enough to get his number from one of the guys.”

  I thought over what he’d said. The theme of fathers and sons, that search for validation and security obviously chimed with me. And yet, there was something more to it. Something deeper than the surface meaning. Something that strangely seemed to go to the heart of the Jericho murders.

  “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” Zac said. “I tried to contact you, tried leaving messages for Sal and your dad to pass on. I knew straight away I’d done something terrible. Scott, can you forgive me?”

  “It’s all right,” I told him. “You’re not responsible for what happened. You’re a good man, Zac. I’m just sorry I can’t be what you need me to be. But listen, you do have a home with us on the fair and we’ll always be there for you. Like it or not, you’re one of us now.”

  He laughed, fresh tears starting in his eyes. “Thank you. You don’t know what that means.”

  I nodded. “I’m not sure I ever did. Not until now.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AFTER ZAC LEFT, I spent a few minutes impatiently awaiting the arrival of Garris. My dad hadn’t mentioned any news of a mutilated corpse being discovered in Bradbury End—which he surely would have, naturally linking it to the case I was investigating—and so either the police were keeping things quiet or else Garris hadn’t yet handed it over to them. I hoped for the latter possibility, though I knew it was unlikely. I’d been out cold for five hours. Even with his loyalty to me, there was no way Garris would put things off that long.

  Five hours. More than enough time for the killer to have reached Hillstrom and created his final Jericho freak.

  An elbow nudged the curtain aside and Harry stepped into the cubicle. He didn’t look as worried as Zac and so I guessed he’d been here awhile and had got used to the sight of me. Taking the seat Zac had just vacated, he rested his hand against my thigh.

  “Do you want to see?”

  I nodded, and pulling out his phone, he snapped a photo. The flash dazzled me and I was reminded of Maxine Thierrot’s lens blinking in the gloom of the alley. Then he perched gingerly on the side the bed, his shoulder nudging mine, and showed me the damage. All in all, I’d expected worse. Clearly, Kerrigan had laid in a few more sly blows after I’d passed out but despite a black eye and a whole heap of swelling, I considered myself lucky.

  “Well, I’m not going
to win any beauty pageants for the next few weeks,” I said. “But you should’ve seen the other guy.”

  “Why?” Harry asked. “What did you do to him?”

  I smiled. Smiling hurt. A lot. “Nothing much. He’s just an ugly fucker is all.”

  “I suppose it was the man we saw in the pub that night? Kerrigan?” Harry sighed. “Scott. He could’ve killed you. How is this ever going to end?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that. My dad’s vague promise that he would “calm Kerrigan down” worried me. I didn’t want him or any of the showpeople putting themselves at risk pursuing a vendetta on my behalf.

  “There might be CCTV evidence,” I said. “Enough to nail him for the assault. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.”

  This was some premium bullshit. I knew there were no cameras in that alleyway. Still, it seemed to help ease Harry’s mind.

  “We should get away from here,” he said, slipping off the bed. “Couple up your trailer and hit the road, just like you said. I know you’ve got this case going on, but can’t you just… I don’t know, leave it be? Everything you’ve said about being an investigator, all the darkness you don’t want to show me, doesn’t that tell you something?”

  “Haz?”

  He didn’t respond and so, groaning, I sat up on the edge of the bed. My ribs seem to swim inside me, floating in a sea of pain. Nothing like the pain that I’d suffered behind the walls of HMP Hazelhurst, however. I looked down at the hands in my lap, tried to stop them from shaking. It was time.

  “They hurt me, Harry,” I said in a tiny voice. “In prison, they hurt me very badly. The other prisoners. When they found out I was ex-police, they…” It rose before me, the shower block with those filthy, blood-streaked tiles, pink rivulets diluting as they gurgled towards the drain. The corner in which I laid huddled afterwards, a fire like nothing I’d felt before burning inside my guts. “I can’t…” I took a breath, felt it catch. “I can’t tell you what they did to me. I just…”

  He came to me, this man I had found again in the howling emptiness of my life. He asked no questions, just wrapped his arms very gently around me.

  “Scott,” he whispered. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “That’s the world I don’t want you to see,” I told him. “Part of it anyway. And you’re right, it isn’t a healthy place for me, but if I turn my back on it then innocent people will suffer. People I can help. Maybe even save.”

  “You’re a good man, Scott Jericho,” he said, his voice hoarse. “And I think I need to tell you something–”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry. I’ll come back.”

  I glanced over Harry’s shoulder to where Garris stood just inside the curtain. The strip lights bleached his already pale skin until it shone like crumpled paper. The poor sod looked done in, his eyes etched red, grief chiselled into every line of his already worn face. When Harriet had been well, he’d turned up to work immaculately attired, trousers pressed, shirt starched. Now, his creased suit seemed to hang from him.

  “No. No, it’s fine,” Harry said, pulling away. “I said I’d drop by the fair on my way home anyway. Let Sal know how you’re getting on. She said to tell you she’s sorry she can’t get to the hospital tonight but that she’ll pop in first thing tomorrow.” He leaned in again and, finding an unswollen corner of my face, planted a kiss. “I’ll call later. I can come back and we can talk if you like.”

  With that, he gave a Garris a shy nod and disappeared through the curtain. Meanwhile, I clenched my teeth against the grind of my ribs and shuffled back onto the bed.

  “Sorry I’ve dragged you back into this,” I gasped. “You don’t need all this crap on your plate. Not right now.”

  Garris remained standing. “It’s a welcome distraction,” he said. “We’ve had weeks to make the funeral arrangements, so there isn’t much I can do other than sit at my kitchen table and stare into space.” When I started to offer my condolences again, he waved them away. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

  “Hillstrom,” I nodded. “Have you–?”

  “One thing at a time.” He gripped the back of the chair but didn’t sit. “Your father tells me this was Kerrigan’s doing?”

  I filled him in on all the details, including Maxine Thierrot’s plan to catch me in her tabloid sting. Garris’ face darkened.

  “We ought to have guessed that dumb fuck wasn’t plotting something on his own. As for Thierrot, I doubt she’s left a paper trail. Once you’ve recovered we could maybe look into it, see if there’s any evidence to substantiate a charge of inciting violence.” He saw my expression and nodded. “But yes, she’s too clever for that. And I doubt leaning on Kerrigan will get us very far. Charging him with assault might be an easier–”

  “Pete, just stop,” I said. “You’re dancing around something. Is it Hillstrom? Is he dead?”

  Garris sighed and finally collapsed into the chair. “Marcus Hillstrom is alive and well. At least he was at eight-fifteen tonight when I dropped by his house on the way here. He was a little annoyed at you for having missed his call at four o’clock, but when I explained what had happened he was all sweetness and light. Sends his best wishes. Not the sort of thing that ever happens in ‘our dear little town’. He does want to know why the police are suddenly so concerned for his welfare, but I said we’d explain it to him in the morning. Which we will, Scott.” He shot me a sharp glance. “This has already gone far enough.”

  “So you’ve been in touch with the local CID?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because after I got off the phone to you, I jumped in my car and headed straight to Bradbury End. I suppose I wanted to talk some sense into you before you started tearing off on some mad crusade. If you want to know the truth, Scott, I’m frightened for you.”

  I cut my eyes away. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “But I do. I worry what you’re going to do when you find this killer. Not for his sake, but for yours. What you told me about Maxine Thierrot, how she said there was something inside you—that rage you unleashed on Kerrigan? She might be a parasite, but she’s right, isn’t she? If you give way to it again, it will destroy you.”

  I shook my head. “So you came to Bradbury.”

  He sighed. “To Gerald Roebuck’s. You weren’t there.”

  “No, I’d already–”

  “Scott. Neither was he.”

  “What?” I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I found the door unlocked. The house was empty. No corpse waiting in the sitting room with balloons for eyes. Just a scribbled note on his desk for his cleaner: ‘Gone back to Hull to visit sick sister. Please water plants’. Other than that, no spilled milkshake, no feasting flies, no defaced plaque on the wall.”

  Pain throbbed at my temples as I tried to make sense of what Garris was telling me. “So he came back after I’d gone? Cleaned up, disposed of the body somehow, removed the memorial stone? Why?”

  “It’s just another chapter in the story, isn’t it?” Garris said. “I mean, things like this don’t happen in real murder cases. Abducted dogs, vanishing corpses. If you want my opinion, he’s fucking with us.”

  “He?”

  Ignoring the shriek of my torso, I sat forward. There had been something definitive in the way Garris had said that word.

  “Pete, do you know who he is?”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out two thin envelopes, one white, one brown. “I think so. And I think we’ve made a big mistake, Scott. He covered his tracks well, set up his new identity so perfectly that even when he was arrested the false documents must have fooled the authorities. My guess would be that he’d committed similar crimes in the States under his birth name and that he or the mother wanted to return home for a fresh start. But old habits die hard. Not long after he settled in Cambridge, he was arrested again.”

  “You’re talking Campbell and Mis
s Barton?”

  He handed over the envelopes. “Or Jonathan and Delia Matthers. I got one of our tech boys to clean up that old photograph from the online archive. Take a look.”

  I pulled out the print: there was the little, pale-faced boy standing on the wrap-around porch of the Matthers’ house. It was still impossible to match him exactly with the repulsive ‘professor’ who had first set me on this strange journey. There was no doubt about the other figure, however. Taken before the fire, in the photograph her face was undamaged, but this was clearly a younger version of the woman who’d introduced herself as Campbell’s devoted nanny.

  I looked at Garris and shook my head. “No. It’s too easy.”

  “Most of the time finding murderers is easy; you know that.” Garris tapped the second envelope. “And I think this proves it beyond much doubt. I found it on Roebuck’s desk with a note inside addressed to you. It’s Campbell, Scott. He’s been playing you all along.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE HANDWRITING, SPRAWLING and spidery, was a match for the other scribbled notes and memoranda I’d seen on Roebuck’s desk: As promised, Mr Jericho—that little surprise I found on the net. Even as a boy, Jonathan always did have a taste for the dramatic.

  I slid the paperclipped note from the corner of the printout. It was a downloadable theatre program from a touring production of The Importance of Being Earnest, then playing at a small community venue in upstate New York. The production had taken place just over five years ago, and although the face of the actor playing the Reverend Canon Chasuble was less cadaverous than that of the man I’d first met in Cambridge, there was no mistaking those blazing blue eyes. Beneath the headshot that Roebuck had circled ran a brief bio: Jonathan Matthers is an accomplished thespian of both Broadway and the London stage. His credits include…