We Are Death (16 page)

A few hours in, and he decided he’d made enough phone calls. He had been e-mailed a list of every expedition that had summited on Kangchenjunga, although no one had been able to tell him if there was a distinction drawn anywhere between those who had respected the tradition of stopping short of the summit, and those who had carried on to the top.

He was gradually working his way through names. How many of these people had died soon after climbing the mountain? That was his starting point. He decided to define ‘soon after’ broadly as five years, but was keeping particular note of those within six months.

For the moment, he was staying clear of people who had actually died on the mountain itself, as that was not what had happened with Carter and Connolly, but he knew it was something to which he might need to return.

Obviously what he needed, to allow him to establish some sort of connection, was for every member of an expedition to have died in a short time frame. That then would point to there being something specific about the mountain, rather than there being something specific about Geyerson’s expedition.

He made himself a coffee, realised he was hungry, decided he would do another hour before taking a break. If he hadn’t heard anything, he would call Leighton then.

He found a few climbers over the years who had died within five years, but there was no pattern. They were all one-off instances, not once with more than one person from the same expedition.

It was the same, but obviously even less frequent, for climbers who had died soon after completing the climb. A Hungarian climber in 1979, a German in 2001. He began to realise that it was coming down to the Japanese expedition that had been mentioned – if there was going to be anything, that would be it – but he stopped himself from jumping ahead.

Yet, by the time he came to it, he had nothing concrete. So far, it had felt like a typical piece of investigative timewasting. There was so much police work like this. Research that led nowhere. Interviews that didn’t answer any questions. You kept plugging away until something clicked, or something connected with a piece of seemingly useless information from three weeks previously.

When it came to it, the Japanese expedition leapt off the page. Four Japanese climbers had reached the summit. Miyamoto, Yasunari, Fukuzawa and Takamoto.

They had been hailed on their return to Japan. Within two weeks Miyamoto was dead, the victim of a mugging turned deadly. Yasunari died two weeks later in a car accident on the island of Maui. Fukuzawa fell into a ravine while climbing in the Kiso Mountains.

The death of Takamoto took a little longer, but at the end of it he was still dead. He was arrested and charged with tax avoidance. The records indicated that he pleaded his innocence. The records also showed that while in custody, awaiting trial, another completely unrelated charge – that of sexual assault – was laid against him. He committed suicide before either charge could be brought to court.

Haynes checked through the remainder of the list, noticing that the mountain – while nowhere near reaching the heights of Everest and its endless-revolving door of mountaineering tourists – was becoming more and more popular. Nevertheless, there was little of interest between the Japanese expedition and Geyerson’s, and while there had subsequently been one or two more deaths, it could easily be explained by the overall increase in traffic.

He had the Japanese expedition, and that was all, but it was certainly worth checking further.

He lifted the phone. Time to make the call. Leighton answered straight away, her voice formal and efficient. The tone of someone immersed in work.

‘Hey.’

‘Sergeant,’ she said. ‘How are you getting on?’

‘Becoming an expert on Kangchenjunga,’ he said. ‘Think I quite want to go there now.’

‘Seriously? To climb it?’

‘No,’ he said, laughing. ‘I was thinking of sitting on a veranda in a hotel in India, looking at it while drinking gin and tonic.’

‘That sounds much nicer. I’ll join you.’

Haynes caught himself smiling down the phone, then managed to pull himself together.

‘You getting anywhere?’

‘I need to go to Paris,’ she said.

‘Of course.’

‘No, really, I need to go to Paris.’

‘Why?’

‘This is great, Stuart, it really is. So interesting.’

He could hear the pages of a book being turned, could imagine the look on her face.

‘So, I spoke to Dr Newton at the College of Arms. Went to see him. Now, I didn’t go into details obviously, and when he saw the card, he was rather dismissive. Didn’t recognise the markings, I mean, as a collective symbol on one flag, and I didn’t say anything to indicate that we have information which suggests this is likely to be something more than someone playing Dungeons & Dragons. Anyway, I attempted to force something out of him and got him to say that it was likely Russian or French, if it was anything. Well, Russian, I mean, at the moment I don’t know that I want to make that call. I probably will, but France seemed easier. So, I did some research first. Of course I found usage of these four symbols in France, but not all together, then I spoke to a researcher at a small library in the seventeenth arrondissement.’

‘You spoke in French?’ asked Haynes, although as soon as he asked, he wasn’t sure why. She laughed.

‘Well, I started in French, which you know isn’t so great, hoping that he’d go easy on me and break into English. Anyway, that never happened. He was wonderfully abrupt and rude. Far too busy to talk to me. Was at pains to point out that they would have everything I needed to know in their library, but that there was no way anyone had any time to help me.
Pourquoi êtes-vous même me parlez?
That’s what he said. Miserable French sod.’

She laughed again, Haynes couldn’t help laughing with her, even though he hadn’t exactly understood what she’d said.

‘So you volunteered to go over there?’

‘Well, yes. I mean, I presume I can charge the trip to the police? I can take the train, and maybe just one night in a hotel should do it.’

The thought of having to explain all this to Dylan flashed through Haynes’s head before he realised she was joking.

‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ he said.

‘I mean, I know this is above and beyond, but it’s kind of interesting. I spend my life in this office, occasionally venturing out to give a talk at a university, or visit some old cathedral somewhere. This is kind of fun.’

‘Apart from the part where people are getting murdered.’

He pictured her nodding, and he could tell, guiltily, that he’d just wiped the smile off her face.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I knew that wasn’t what you meant. Look, you’re really going to go to this library?’

‘Yep. Like I say, he was a miserable little bastard, but I managed to get an appointment out of him. Meeting him at nine tomorrow morning. Don’t worry, I won’t be asking your superintendent to get the bill.’

‘Right,’ said Haynes.

Could feel his weekend just run away from him. The promise of it had been allowing him, to some extent, to push the thought of her to the back of his mind and concentrate on the job at hand. Now, it seemed, he was about to lose her to Paris.

‘Anyway, I’m just about to book my tickets and was going to call you. You’d like to come, right?’

Haynes glanced up at the clock, then looked back at his computer screen, the churning of his insides easing off.

‘Count me in,’ he said.

––––––––

E
arly evening in Marrakesh, the air hot and dusty outside, the air conditioning turned down a little too low inside.

Jericho didn’t like change, didn’t like things to be too different. He didn’t mind travelling within Europe, but had never left it before. He could watch films and documentaries, he could find other lands and cultures interesting, but really had no desire to experience it for himself. If the only foreign land he ever saw was vicariously through David Attenborough, he’d have been quite happy.

Now, here he was, the investigation picking him up and spewing him all the way to North Africa, to the edge of the High Atlas. The smell in the air, the feel of the heat, were so alien to him.

They’d taken a taxi straight to the hotel. With just an hour of daylight left, Badstuber had wanted to go out and explore the town. They could have arranged everything they needed to from the hotel, but she had wanted to see a souk, she’d wanted to breathe it in and experience it.

Jericho had wanted to hide.

He had stayed in his room, until she sent him a text message suggesting they meet in the hotel bar. He was here early, standing with a cold beer, waiting for her. The barman, clearly a westerner although Jericho couldn’t pick up the accent, was nearby. Seeking comfort in familiarity, Jericho decided to engage in an act of traditional, regular police work.

He removed one of the small pictures of Geyerson with which the Swiss had provided him, and held it across the bar.

‘You see this guy in here recently?’ he asked.

They had made the point of booking the same hotel as Geyerson, on the off-chance that there would be something useful worth learning.

The barman took a step over, looked down at the photo and laughed slightly.

‘For sure,’ he said. ‘He was in here every night, I don’t know, maybe three nights in a row. Something like that. Maybe just two.’

‘You speak to him?’

‘Guys like him don’t speak to guys like me, other than to order a drink.’

‘And by guys like him, you mean...?’

‘Rich. Ugly. Stupid. Obnoxious.’

The barman smiled and then affectedly looked up as though he was seriously thinking things over.

‘Let’s see if I managed to cover all his best qualities. He was a rich, ugly, stupid, obnoxious motherfucker. Yep, I think that’s him. Not much else to say.’

‘How did that show up?’ asked Jericho. ‘Can you give me an example?’

‘It was really only two things,’ said the barman. ‘Everything he said, and everything he did.’

Jericho laughed slightly, playing along.

‘Specifics would be great,’ he said.

The barman smirked, shrugged.

‘One of those customers, you know. Loud, vulgar, rude. Treated that bitch of his like dirt, I mean, it was wicked.’

‘Bitch?’

‘Yeah, he was with some guy, you know...’

Jericho picked out the photo of Emerick and placed it on the bar.

‘Yeah, that was him.’

‘Why did you say bitch?’

‘You know, man, he was running after him. Getting the drinks, getting the luggage, getting the phone, doing anything. Desperate for attention but being treated like shit at the same time. You notice things in bars. You see the way people act. You see patterns. I always say, you know, if you’re going to be a psychologist, some smart fucker like that, you could do worse than spending six months doing this first. You see all kinds of shit, you really do.’

‘Did he ever get drunk?’

The barman shook his head.

‘He didn’t need to get drunk to be an asshole.’

‘Lose his temper?’

‘All the time.’

‘Who at?’

‘Usually the gimp. At me once, but that didn’t get him very far. Heard him shouting down the phone a couple of times.’

‘Did he say anything interesting?’

‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’

‘You only just noticed? We’ve been talking for five minutes.’

The barman didn’t immediately respond, so Jericho took out his ID card and placed it on the bar next to the photographs.

‘That makes sense,’ he said.

‘Did you ever hear him say anything interesting on the phone.’

‘“Listen, Harrow, you little fuck,”’ said the barman, and he started laughing. ‘I remember that phrase. That made me laugh.
Listen, Harrow, you little fuck
. Hilarious.’

‘That’s good,’ said Jericho, fully aware that the barman was a talker, and that the best way to keep a talker talking was flattery. ‘That’s actually pretty helpful. You pick up anything else he said to Harrow?’

‘You know Harrow?’

‘I don’t know Harrow,’ said Jericho, ‘but we’re interested in Harrow.’

The barman smiled. Leant on the bar, his hands outstretched. Looked off to the side, as if contemplating whether or not there was anything he could get out of the policeman. He didn’t suppose there was much chance, but if all he got was an opportunity to shaft the rich American in some way he’d likely never even hear about, it was probably worth it.

‘Is there any money in me talking to you?’ he asked anyway.

Jericho replied silently, the look on his face hardening.

‘Yeah, all right. He mentioned Syria,’ he said, and then shrugged.

‘Syria?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Why would I be kidding? It’s not like you’re ever going to pay me anything.’

They weren’t going to have to go to Syria next, were they? The thought of another culture, and a mess of a bloody country at that, immediately gripped Jericho’s stomach. Why couldn’t Harrow have been in Weston-super-Mare or Yeovil?

‘Can you remember the context in which Syria was mentioned?’

The barman nodded, then straightened up as he saw another customer enter the bar. Something of the Diana Rigg about her, he thought.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sudden explosion. I mean, it was hilarious. He’s talking on the phone, then suddenly he’s like,
Syria! Harrow, you fucking retard!
’ He laughed. ‘Too bad, though. Obviously he realised he shouldn’t be shouting... Ah, you’re together. What can I get you, madam?’

‘A glass of white wine, please,’ she said. ‘And a small bottle of water.’

‘Of course.’

‘So, he stopped? He hung up?’

There was the sound of laughter behind, and then four people entered the bar, talking loudly. The barman turned, poured the wine, placed the glass on the bar, then reached beneath to put ice in a glass, retrieving a bottle of water from the fridge behind.

‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, that guy was always shouting in the bar. He was a prize asshole. He obviously, you know, realised he shouldn’t be shouting about Syria in the bar, that’s all. Shouting at this guy Harrow. So, even as he was insulting the dude, his voice was quietening down. Then he took it outside.’