Silencing the Dead by Will Harker (ereader ebook .txt) 📕

was now balanced on his heels and shoulders, the centre of his body arching outwards. It was as if his arms and legs had been weighted down while an invisible rope had been tied around his middle. Slowly, this unseen tether appeared to be winched in, concaving Darrel Everwood’s spine to the breaking point. Then all at once, he collapsed into the chair, gasping, choking, only to be jerked back into that same exaggerated posture. This happened five or six times, the heels of his boots rapping out a hollow tattoo on the floorboards.

It was as clever as it was cruel. The ultimate act of mockery, not enacted prior to death, as I’d originally thought, but at the very same moment. No one was rushing to Everwood’s aid. They had seen his possession routine before. They believed his death throes were all part of the show.

We watched on as the killer’s final victim jerked and thrashed, foaming at the mouth, clenching his jaw, bending his spine until surely it had to snap. Watched the inexpressible agony in his every hideous contortion. Watched the unspoken pleading glisten in his eyes. Watched until at last the life went out of him and he slumped back into the chair.

As a nation, we watched a man was murdered live on-air. Watched and did nothing. Darrel Everwood had been right all along.

This would be remembered forever as the media event of the century.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I had thought that the killer might have entirely abandoned their ritual in the public execution of Darrel Everwood. But replaying those final moments in my head, I wondered if that was true—the flame-red smoking jacket, the mustard-yellow cravat, the glow of the firelight flickering across his agonised body, and then there was the choice of strychnine as the poison. Perhaps not only to mimic the medium’s possession routine, but in those flailing, tortured movements, to suggest the agony of a burning witch.

That was what I thought as I limped out of the motorway services towards my car. In fact, this insight turned out to be just another that didn’t quite hit the mark.

I had left the people at the table in a state of confusion and horror. A reaction that was probably being shared in households up and down the country. Many might think that what they’d just witnessed was a joke—a gruesome Halloween stunt designed to shock the nation. I imagined furious parents jamming the phone lines of the TV station, demanding to know why Darrel Everwood had just traumatised their little tykes. From what the girls had told me, I knew social media was in meltdown. As well as the public, reporters, politicians, influencers, and celebrities all appeared to be gripped by a collective hysteria, everyone posing theories and demanding answers.

I dropped into the driver’s seat. The rain was still falling, a drenching blast that came in gusty waves across the windscreen. I wiped my face on my sleeve and spent a few minutes staring through the downpour. I knew I couldn’t have saved Everwood. The realisation of what had really been happening in this case, had come too late. But still, the clues had been there right from the beginning, their true significance just waiting to be appreciated. If I hadn’t been so distracted at the prospect of losing Haz, would I have seen it earlier? I only knew that the fury I had expected to experience at this moment was not there. Instead, all I felt was a weary sort of sorrow that made me dread the confrontation to come.

My phone pulsed into life. A call from Tallis. I turned off the handset and went back to staring at the rain.

I left it until just after one in the morning before starting the car and continuing my journey to Purley. In those long, dark hours, I had checked and rechecked my theory against the facts. One clue central to the murders had suddenly illuminated a separate puzzle. A human drama that had been running alongside the main event and which had also distracted me. If the players in that little production were still up and about, then it might be worth having a word with them too.

I moved on from A-roads into country lanes, confident that, by the time I arrived, the main police presence would have left the site. In fact, a couple of constables were still on duty when I pulled into the carpark. I grabbed my beanie from the backseat, pulling it low so that it obscured my bandaged forehead.

“Mr Jericho,” an officer said as he checked my ID. “I was told to keep a lookout for you, sir. DCI Tallis says you must contact him as a matter of urgency. Guvnor said for you not to do anything without his say-so. Said you’d understand.”

I flourished my mobile. “I intend to call him in the next few minutes. I just need to check in on someone first.”

“Long as you steer clear of the house, that should be OK. I suppose you know what happened here tonight?”

“Yes,” I said. “I believe I do.”

Stalking through the last of the drizzle, I headed straight for the production trailers. Just a few hours ago, this entire area must have been a hive of activity, the Ghost Seekers crew dashing around in preparation for their big broadcast. Now, like the fair, Purley Rectory lay cloaked in silence and darkness. I guessed most of the team would have been interviewed and released back to their hotel hours ago. I imagined them now, crowded into each other’s rooms, passing around drinks, all trying to process what they’d seen.

All except one.

A light was on in the small trailer next to the late Darrel Everwood’s. I mounted the step and knocked.

“Scott? I… I’m so sorry, I can’t see you now.”

Deepal Chandra tried to close the door on me. I wedged my foot in the gap.

“Is your partner with you?” I asked. “I’d like to speak to