Silencing the Dead by Will Harker (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

we’d heard that Everwood was spreading a rumour that we’d had something to do with it. I had an entire search history on my computer at home, full of stories about Genevieve Bell and Darrel and Tilda and fake medium exposés. And there we were, two apparently unhinged parents visiting a fortune teller just minutes before she was brutally murdered.”

“And Genevieve’s book?” I said eagerly. “Do you happen to have your copy with you?”

“I’m sorry, no. We’re staying at a local hotel and the book is back at home.” She turned to John. “Which is where we should be. Not persecuting that ignorant, stupid man, but waiting for Debbie to come home to us. Just two more days, John, and we’ll see our girl again.”

He looked me square in the face. “Do you believe that, Mr Jericho? That your aunt could really see such a thing?”

I thought back to my childhood, to those short years of unquestioning belief before all the monsters and miracles are stripped away from us. Back then, I had believed without question in my mother’s bedtime stories, in my father’s invincibility, in Aunt Tilda’s third eye that could see into veiled worlds and futures yet to come.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” I told them. “But if you feel you need my help at any time, please call.”

I pulled a page from the notebook in my back pocket, scribbled my number, and handed it to Anne Chambers. Together, they then turned and walked away down the forest road.

I watched until they disappeared among the trees. Something they’d said about their visit to Tilda’s nagged at me. Not the extraordinary claim that their daughter would soon return to them, but a detail so bland in comparison it was difficult to draw it from my memory. It seemed to link up with a comment someone else had made in recent days. Not about the case itself—or at least not obviously—just a stray passing remark.

It was no good. Maybe if my brain hadn’t been so fried with last night’s booze and sleeping pills, I might have realised the significance of what the Chambers had just told me. Would it have saved lives in the end? I’m not sure. I might have dismissed it anyway as a flimsy coincidence. Suggestive perhaps, but no more than that. In any case, I now had to roll the dice with Darrel Everwood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Walking back towards the medium and his PA, I considered my reaction to what had probably been Aunt Tilda’s final prediction. It had come from a kinder, more generous place than Everwood’s pronouncement of death—I doubted Tilda had even taken any money from the Chambers—but in its effect, it could prove even more devastating. Every hope of these shattered people now rested on an old woman’s conviction that their daughter would somehow return to them. When that failed to happen? I didn’t like to think about the consequences.

“Well?” Everwood asked as I approached.

“They’ve had their say,” I told him. “I think they’ll stay away from you from now on. No need to involve the police.”

I could see him visibly deflate. “Thank Christ. I told you we should have sorted a face-to-face with them months ago,” he sneered at Deepal. “But no, you thought that would just ‘inflame interpersonal tensions’ or whatever PR drivel was spewing from your lips that day. And now look—they’ve vandalised my bloody car again.” He strode over to the Bentley and kicked a monogrammed cowboy boot against his punctured tyre. “I said to Nicky they’d done the first one, but he wouldn’t have it. Said it was just a stray nail on the driveway.”

“Where is your bodyguard?” I asked.

“I sent him on an errand,” Everwood said. “Never around when I need him. Anyway, I’m very grateful for what you did, Mr–?”

“Jericho.”

“Jericho from the fair?” He frowned. “I thought you’d be older.”

“You’re thinking of my dad. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to talk to you, Mr Everwood. It was my aunt who was killed the other night and I wondered if I could get your insight into the murder. She was a psychic, too. A fortune teller. I don’t know much about these things personally, but wouldn’t gifted people like yourselves have an intuition about each other? If something bad had happened while you were in the same vicinity, you might feel the passing of their soul or whatever?”

“Not intuition,” Everwood objected. “Knowledge. Accurate, professional knowledge. So Tilda Urnshaw was your aunt?”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Deepal interjected, throwing me an annoyed glance. “I’m sure Mr Thorn would have something to say about it.”

“Seb’s my manager, not my employer,” Everwood shot back. “I can make my own decisions about who I talk to. It would be my pleasure to meet with you, Mr Jericho.”

“Do you have a spare five minutes now?” I suggested. “I mean, unless your personal assistant has any objections?”

Everwood took the bait. “She can shove her objections where the sun don’t shine. Deepal, you wait here for Nick and get him straight on that fucking tyre again.” He threw his arm around my shoulder and I almost choked on the reek of expensive cologne. “Me and my new mate are off for a chinwag. Do not disturb.”

Keys clearly being for lesser mortals, Everwood’s trailer was accessed by a palm-print reader. His biometrics scanned, the medium tripped up the stairs and into an almost absurd level of luxury. Granite countertops, lighted makeup table, crocodile leather upholstery, an entertainment system that took up a third of the floorspace, even a low-hanging chandelier to crack your skull against. Everwood waved me onto the couch while he flicked the switch on a complicated-looking coffee machine.

“Can I get you one?” he asked, that stage cockney accent slipping already.

“No, I’m good.”

“So you wanted to know…?” His brow corrugated, as if he’d already forgotten who I was and what I was doing there.

“I happened to catch sight of you on the night my aunt