some point late in the morning. When he was asleep, at least, he wasn’t nervous. He’d swum for half an hour. He had eaten lunch with his hosts, fresh seafood prepared by the chefs on the boat, had drowned out his anxiety with Louis Roederer Cristal, and had talked about everything except why he was there. And now he was lying back on his bed, raging with lust, one woman straddled across his face, grinding her pussy against his mouth and his desperate tongue, while another bit and sucked on his engorged penis, before climbing on top of him and ramming him deep inside her.
Harrow, unaware of what had happened to Carter and Connolly, was doing his best to have fun, while Baschkin watched.
*
T hey were all in Dylan’s office. The cards were, quite literally, on the table.
Leighton, Haynes and Badstuber were sitting around the desk in a small arc of chairs. The fourth chair was empty, Jericho standing at the window, feeling as detached as he looked.
He’d barely spoken since losing his temper at Badstuber. Facing the end, he suddenly thought. That’s what it was. At first, the idea of retiring in just four weeks’ time had seemed incredibly quick, as though his long career would be over in a blur. Now, just two days later, it seemed as though he was already used to it, had already accepted it. He was done. His career in the police was over.
So what was the point in chasing down one last case? What was the point in tackling some great, mysterious organisation? If they were as vast and all-powerful as it seemed Badstuber wanted them to be, what could they hope to achieve?
The world is ruled by power. Powerful people, powerful societies. An individual, or a small police station, trying to do something about it, was like the UK trying to get people to recycle plastic bags, while China and India spewed billions of tons of waste into the world. It was a pinprick. It was nothing. And that was how he felt, up against these invisible people, up against the police force and up against the oncoming rush of retirement.
But wasn’t he compelled to go after them now for all sorts of reasons?
Dylan was looking at the blown-up images of the two tarot cards Haynes and Leighton had brought with them from London. The expanded pictures clearly showed the detail that was intended to be identified by the police, so they could see who they were dealing with. The powers at their disposal, the all-encompassing nature of how invincible they were.
In close up it was revealed that, in the card left at Jericho’s bedside, the faces of the dead lying at the feet of Death belonged to the nine people killed by Durrant in his old seaside haunt. The faces of the more distant victims included some of those killed in the months prior to that, as part of the set-up that had ultimately implicated Jericho. There were many more dead, piled high in the background, whose identity it was not possible to determine.
In the card Haynes had received the day before, it was clear that the five hanging men had the faces of Geyerson, Emerick, Harrow, Connolly and Carter. The latter two were the ones who had already died. It was no longer conjecture that the three others would be next on the list. It seemed unequivocal.
‘So when were you going to tell me about this?’
‘I only got my card last night,’ said Haynes, defensively. ‘And I’ve been up in London. This is my first chance.’
She held his gaze for a moment, then turned to Jericho.
‘And you?’
Jericho looked down at her with the old loathing. He hadn’t enjoyed her tone since he’d come in. He didn’t like that they were all in there at once, this collective group, with an outside officer and a civilian, being spoken to with Dylan’s old, familiar arrogance.
‘I intended taking it to my grave,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m glad you changed your mind. Should we thank you?’
‘Looking at the blown-up images,’ said Jericho, ignoring the attitude, ‘it’s clear that the card that
Harrow, unaware of what had happened to Carter and Connolly, was doing his best to have fun, while Baschkin watched.
*
T hey were all in Dylan’s office. The cards were, quite literally, on the table.
Leighton, Haynes and Badstuber were sitting around the desk in a small arc of chairs. The fourth chair was empty, Jericho standing at the window, feeling as detached as he looked.
He’d barely spoken since losing his temper at Badstuber. Facing the end, he suddenly thought. That’s what it was. At first, the idea of retiring in just four weeks’ time had seemed incredibly quick, as though his long career would be over in a blur. Now, just two days later, it seemed as though he was already used to it, had already accepted it. He was done. His career in the police was over.
So what was the point in chasing down one last case? What was the point in tackling some great, mysterious organisation? If they were as vast and all-powerful as it seemed Badstuber wanted them to be, what could they hope to achieve?
The world is ruled by power. Powerful people, powerful societies. An individual, or a small police station, trying to do something about it, was like the UK trying to get people to recycle plastic bags, while China and India spewed billions of tons of waste into the world. It was a pinprick. It was nothing. And that was how he felt, up against these invisible people, up against the police force and up against the oncoming rush of retirement.
But wasn’t he compelled to go after them now for all sorts of reasons?
Dylan was looking at the blown-up images of the two tarot cards Haynes and Leighton had brought with them from London. The expanded pictures clearly showed the detail that was intended to be identified by the police, so they could see who they were dealing with. The powers at their disposal, the all-encompassing nature of how invincible they were.
In close up it was revealed that, in the card left at Jericho’s bedside, the faces of the dead lying at the feet of Death belonged to the nine people killed by Durrant in his old seaside haunt. The faces of the more distant victims included some of those killed in the months prior to that, as part of the set-up that had ultimately implicated Jericho. There were many more dead, piled high in the background, whose identity it was not possible to determine.
In the card Haynes had received the day before, it was clear that the five hanging men had the faces of Geyerson, Emerick, Harrow, Connolly and Carter. The latter two were the ones who had already died. It was no longer conjecture that the three others would be next on the list. It seemed unequivocal.
‘So when were you going to tell me about this?’
‘I only got my card last night,’ said Haynes, defensively. ‘And I’ve been up in London. This is my first chance.’
She held his gaze for a moment, then turned to Jericho.
‘And you?’
Jericho looked down at her with the old loathing. He hadn’t enjoyed her tone since he’d come in. He didn’t like that they were all in there at once, this collective group, with an outside officer and a civilian, being spoken to with Dylan’s old, familiar arrogance.
‘I intended taking it to my grave,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m glad you changed your mind. Should we thank you?’
‘Looking at the blown-up images,’ said Jericho, ignoring the attitude, ‘it’s clear that the card that
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