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Authors: Douglas Lindsay
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notwithstanding. He did not play music. He listened to Radio 4 for less than thirty seconds, then turned it off. News. Durrant was not interested in the news.
Although he was about to make some.
*
Jericho's mood was getting slowly worse, as it often did when he was in a grey humour from the moment he awoke. Each and every one of the constant irritations of the day ate away at him, sucked him further into the well. It never did take anything major.
He had spent the morning making calls and reading reports. Following up what might have been unexplained deaths. It was the same in every case. If he wanted it to be suspicious, he could find some way in which it could be. He could read something sinister into every nuance of the case, every nut and bolt of the investigation. It didn't mean, however, that any of the speculation would be accurate. And with every phone call came the question as to why the famous detective from out of town was asking, and was he reading more into the death than could be taken at face value, which automatically made the police officer at the other end of the line assume that Jericho knew something that he didn't, which automatically made the police officer annoyed and suspicious when Jericho was never forthcoming.
A pernicious circle of questions and suspicions that was destined never to get anywhere.
He gave up at 2:35pm. Haynes was not in a position to give up of his own volition, but had already reached the same uncomfortable conclusions as Jericho.
Jericho sat and stared out of the window. He would tell Haynes to give up shortly, but was not of the mind to go out of his way to go and tell him immediately. His door was shut. The day was grey. He had finished work for the afternoon, even if it was likely that he would still be sitting in the same position sometime after six. He couldn't work when his brain shut down like this.
There was a knock at the door. He didn't move. It made no difference to his mood. What could it possibly be? For a while, for a few years, every knock at the door could have been news about Amanda, but time had taken that away from him. Now a knock at the door was just another interruption.
Another knock. He didn't respond. The door opened; Sergeant Light stuck her head into the room. She'd been told what to expect, and was approaching with trepidation. Assumed that his dark mood was down to his forced involvement in the television show. Assumed that he thought her useless, as he always seemed to be in a foul mood when they worked together.
'We need to be downstairs, Chief Inspector,' said Light. 'We had a 2.30, already late.'
Jericho couldn't remember a 2.30. He was watching a flock of starlings swooping in awkward dark formations across the fields. He finally turned and caught Light's eye. She felt drawn in by his gaze, a horrible, bloody stare. Like looking into the eyes of a killer, she thought.
'2.30,' she said again, to break the silence.
'What?' said Jericho, only managing the first word of the sentence.
'We're back in with Hattie Morris. From the production company. Just a few details to sort through before we go up for the show tomorrow evening. She's brought…… there's another executive down from London with her.'
Jericho didn't reply. If he'd been in a better mood Light would have felt able to say that the other executive had been brought in because Morris obviously had her doubts about Jericho's fitness for reality television. For any kind of television in fact.
Jericho didn't move.
'We should go, Sir, they're waiting.'
*
The other executive was one of the three who had originally sat in the room the previous summer waiting for the arrival of their boss in order to begin concocting the next big thing in British television. Of that initial three, he was the only survivor. The others had gone on to other, more interesting things, by some accounts, but in reality they had just been gotten rid of because they had not been contributing.
The
Although he was about to make some.
*
Jericho's mood was getting slowly worse, as it often did when he was in a grey humour from the moment he awoke. Each and every one of the constant irritations of the day ate away at him, sucked him further into the well. It never did take anything major.
He had spent the morning making calls and reading reports. Following up what might have been unexplained deaths. It was the same in every case. If he wanted it to be suspicious, he could find some way in which it could be. He could read something sinister into every nuance of the case, every nut and bolt of the investigation. It didn't mean, however, that any of the speculation would be accurate. And with every phone call came the question as to why the famous detective from out of town was asking, and was he reading more into the death than could be taken at face value, which automatically made the police officer at the other end of the line assume that Jericho knew something that he didn't, which automatically made the police officer annoyed and suspicious when Jericho was never forthcoming.
A pernicious circle of questions and suspicions that was destined never to get anywhere.
He gave up at 2:35pm. Haynes was not in a position to give up of his own volition, but had already reached the same uncomfortable conclusions as Jericho.
Jericho sat and stared out of the window. He would tell Haynes to give up shortly, but was not of the mind to go out of his way to go and tell him immediately. His door was shut. The day was grey. He had finished work for the afternoon, even if it was likely that he would still be sitting in the same position sometime after six. He couldn't work when his brain shut down like this.
There was a knock at the door. He didn't move. It made no difference to his mood. What could it possibly be? For a while, for a few years, every knock at the door could have been news about Amanda, but time had taken that away from him. Now a knock at the door was just another interruption.
Another knock. He didn't respond. The door opened; Sergeant Light stuck her head into the room. She'd been told what to expect, and was approaching with trepidation. Assumed that his dark mood was down to his forced involvement in the television show. Assumed that he thought her useless, as he always seemed to be in a foul mood when they worked together.
'We need to be downstairs, Chief Inspector,' said Light. 'We had a 2.30, already late.'
Jericho couldn't remember a 2.30. He was watching a flock of starlings swooping in awkward dark formations across the fields. He finally turned and caught Light's eye. She felt drawn in by his gaze, a horrible, bloody stare. Like looking into the eyes of a killer, she thought.
'2.30,' she said again, to break the silence.
'What?' said Jericho, only managing the first word of the sentence.
'We're back in with Hattie Morris. From the production company. Just a few details to sort through before we go up for the show tomorrow evening. She's brought…… there's another executive down from London with her.'
Jericho didn't reply. If he'd been in a better mood Light would have felt able to say that the other executive had been brought in because Morris obviously had her doubts about Jericho's fitness for reality television. For any kind of television in fact.
Jericho didn't move.
'We should go, Sir, they're waiting.'
*
The other executive was one of the three who had originally sat in the room the previous summer waiting for the arrival of their boss in order to begin concocting the next big thing in British television. Of that initial three, he was the only survivor. The others had gone on to other, more interesting things, by some accounts, but in reality they had just been gotten rid of because they had not been contributing.
The
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