by Matt Brolly
‘He wouldn’t be so stupid as to go public,’ said Adrienne.
‘Maybe not but we didn’t leave on best terms. The four of them had a strange relationship. I can’t figure it out and as you know Tillman had never been one for talking.’
‘Hogg was with you at the parole meeting?’
‘You heard about that?’
Adrienne raised her eyebrows, highlighting the pointlessness of Lambert’s question. ‘Tillman told me during the Kirby investigation. Why hasn’t Hogg printed anything on this story?’
‘Claims it’s a conflict of interest.’
Adrienne snorted. ‘Like that’s ever stopped anyone. The Chief has asked to see me this morning.’
Lambert agreed. Why had Hogg held onto the story all this time? Hogg had suggested he had respect for Tillman but Lambert doubted it extended that far, more likely Tillman had something on the journalist. He hoped he’d get the chance to ask him one day.
‘Something I should know?’ asked Lambert. Although the case was unofficial at the moment, Lambert was technically the Senior Investigating Officer. It didn’t make sense that Adrienne would be the Chief’s main contact.
‘What can I say? I go back a long way with Hickman, though you wouldn’t guess so if you considered my rank. He wants everything done on the quiet. Better you get on with what you do best, Michael.’
Lambert decided not to share Hogg’s revelation about Devlin and Kirby attacking Wyatt. Although it was a potential motive for Wyatt’s taking revenge, it was still just conjecture and he didn’t want to sully Tillman’s reputation on the hearsay of the journalist. ‘Maybe suggest to his holiness that we get some more help on this. It seems pointless keeping this secret now. Hogg knows Glenn’s missing so why can’t everyone else?’ said Lambert.
‘I’ll pass on your comments,’ said Adrienne.
With nothing else to sustain him, Lambert poured another cup of the burnt coffee. At his desk, he scrolled through the old case files from Wyatt’s initial murders through to the deaths of Kirby and Devlin. As the information played out on one of the computer screens, he used his laptop to download all the newspaper cuttings from Dan Hogg related to the old cases. Working this way made the information settle but it also helped him spot things he might otherwise miss; an occasional fact, or statement that appeared innocuous but could change the case.
After reading Hogg’s reports, he uploaded Joseph Wyatt’s case file. As his parole officer had stated, Wyatt was a gifted academic. Reports from his tutors at UCL, and his first-year exams, placed him in the top ten percentile in his year and it seemed that prison hadn’t held him back. His subsequent degrees – undergraduate economics, masters in criminology, PhD in psychology - suggested he hadn’t wasted his time inside, so why had he resumed killing the moment he’d been allowed out?
Lambert understood that killing was often a compulsion that couldn’t be managed, yet he still found it hard to comprehend why Wyatt would move on to such obvious targets so soon after being released whatever his desire for revenge. He was extremely intelligent so why hadn’t he tempered his compulsion, or at least focused it on different victims where he wouldn’t be so obvious a suspect?
After he’d finished reading the files, Lambert went back to the beginning of the investigation. The first victim, Michelle Lewis had been discovered almost twenty-five years ago to this day. Lambert studied the grainy image of her lifeless body tangled in the vines and mud of the Thames. She’d been on the same course as Alice Fowler, both members of the rowing club at UCL. Lambert scrolled through Tillman’s case reports from that time, noting the contribution from the criminal psychologist, Simon Travis. Travis predicted - once Michelle and the second victim’s cause of death was confirmed as forced drowning - that the killer would have a traumatic affinity with water from their childhood, the sole clue that eventually led to Wyatt. The theory didn’t seem to be a great leap of logic and Lambert imagined Tillman had probably been looking along those lines of investigation anyway.
A newspaper article was in the appendix, predating Michelle Lewis’s death by fifteen years. It described the death of Carla Wyatt from drowning. The woman had fallen into the river when she’d been walking the five-year old Joseph Wyatt. Unable to swim, and alone save for her young son, she’d drowned.
Lambert scrolled for further records searching for the exact location where Carla Wyatt had died and wasn't surprised to discover it was only metres from where the body of Michelle Lewis was found, by a stretch of river near Putney. Using Google maps, Lambert found the area, zooming in on a small building by the river’s edge.
8
Any vague hope Lambert had that Tillman might be being held captive within the boathouse was dashed as he reached the grey brick building. The thick plastic boards which replaced the windows were immovable. Lambert checked the lettering: Property of the Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham. He walked the long abandoned jetty to the river edge. The wooden stands were rotten now and he would need to check if the building was abandoned after Michelle Lewis’s death.
He made his way a hundred metres along the bank to where he estimated Carla Wyatt had fallen into the river. He tried to imagine what that must have been like for the young Joseph Wyatt, watching his mother drown whilst he stood helpless on the side. What must have those final seconds been like? His mother taking her final breath? Had she looked his way, pleading, before falling beneath the surface for one last time? How could a five-year old deal with seeing such a tragedy?
Unfortunately, Lambert had the answer to that. It was easy to feel sorry for Wyatt – and, to an extent, he did – but only for the child Wyatt had been. Wyatt had killed those two women without mercy – even if Michelle Lewis’s death was technically manslaughter - and had tried to do the same to Alice Fowler. And now, all these years later, he’d started to kill again. Lambert wished the boy’s mother had never slipped and fallen into the river, but nothing could excuse the actions of the man Wyatt became.
Lambert returned to the boathouse and began playing with the screws holding the boards in place. Although he found it impossible to believe Tillman was here, he had to see for himself. Ten minutes later, after having to explain his presence to an elderly lady who was most perturbed by what he was doing, he’d managed to make a hole big enough to fit inside.
A paranoid part of him told him to call in his location, but he dismissed the idea and climbed onto the edge of the opening. He shone his torch inside revealing a hollow, concrete interior, and climbed inside. Cursing, as the material of his trousers caught on a piece of jagged concrete sticking out from the ledge, he landed off balance and toppled onto the cold floor. His torch fell from his hand and for a short period he was in near darkness. Lambert wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but the abandoned boathouse had a crypt-like feel to it. He controlled his breathing as he retrieved his torch and got to his feet. It would easy to talk himself into a panic but he ignored the voice telling him to leave, and ventured further into the building.
A musty, decrepit smell hit him as he moved through the shell of the building, the build-up of trapped air. The records showed the building had been used by the university rowing team to store their equipment, but nothing here suggested that was ever the case. A rotten wooden door, still signed with a little man, led to a set of changing rooms. The toilets and showers had been gutted, the showerheads and urinals ripped from the white-tiled walls. Lambert stopped as a shadow flickered across the floor of the room, his torch alighting on the bloated figure of a rat scurrying into an opening at the base of the wall. Lambert released his held breath and moved faster than he’d have liked out of the room.
On the lookout for more rats, he entered the female changing room which was more complete than the male counterpart. Lambert opened one of the cubicles and was surprised to find a pool of stagnant water in the solitary toilet. He shone his torch over every inch of the interior but there was no sign of Tillman.
He tried not to hurry as he return
ed to the opening and refused to acknowledge his relief when he saw that no one had boarded up the window. He pulled himself onto the ledge, pleased to be out of the stifling building. Back in his car, he checked the day’s itinerary prepared for him by Adrienne. Hopefully his next stop would shed some light on the abandoned boathouse.
Adrienne had called ahead, so the Fowlers were expecting him. Lambert nodded to the two patrol officers situated outside the house. Mrs Fowler answered the door, shrinking into herself as Lambert showed her his warrant card. ‘Please come in,’ she said, as Lambert followed her through to a living room area.
The atmosphere in the room was reminiscent of that day at the Blue Boar pub, muted yet laced with the threat of potential violence. Alice Fowler sat on a worn cloth sofa, her body sunk so far back into the material it was as if she was trying to escape within its folds, while her father paced behind her ready to attack someone or something. Even the lighting reminded Lambert of the bar: dark and moody as if Mr Fowler had replaced the bulbs in the house with a lower wattage to match the family’s dark mood. ‘Another day, another copper,’ said the man, as Lambert showed him his warrant card. ‘I remember you,’ he added, without looking at Lambert’s credentials. ‘One of Tillman’s underlings.’
Lambert wasn’t about to be dismissed or undermined by the man. ‘DCI Michael Lambert,’ he said, emphasising his rank.
‘Get us some tea, Val,’ said Mr Fowler, not bothering to ask Lambert if that was what he wanted. ‘So how can we help you, DCI Lambert? I presume you’re not here to tell us you’ve found the bastard.’
‘Unfortunately not. I’m afraid Chief Superintendent Tillman has gone missing,’ said Lambert, studying the flickering of emotion in Mr Fowler’s eyes at the news as Alice sank further into her chair.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Fowler.
Tillman had visited the house when Devlin and Kirby disappeared, had asked all the same questions Lambert was about to ask. The futility of continuing struck Lambert but he persevered. ‘Obviously, you know what happened to Mr Devlin and Mr Kirby. Our hope is that Glenn is still alive and that we can find him before it’s too late.’
Mr Fowler nodded and asked him to sit. Alice flinched as he sat down next to her. The woman was at least a decade older than him but she acted like a shy teenager, unable to meet his gaze. He recalled her in the bar, how she’d told her father about her witness statement. I told them the impact he had our lives, Dad. On everyone’s lives. Lambert had long felt one of the deficiencies in his role as a police officer was victim support. Each day brought with it new cases, new challenges. It wasn't his role to focus on the ongoing lives of the many victims he dealt with. There was a necessary coldness needed in his role. He had to fight the risk of becoming involved during and after cases. If he did, he simply wouldn’t be able to function. But with what happened to his friend Billy, he knew all too well the long-lasting impact crime had on people. And then he’d only been a bystander. Although very close to Billy, he was one of the many friends and acquaintances from university who’d had to live with what happened, who’d lived to survive another day. It was nothing compared with what Alice had gone through. She’d been seconds away from being Wyatt’s third kill, though looking at her now Lambert understood she was just as much of a victim as the two unfortunate girls who’d lost their lives. She was broken beyond repair. She had a part-time job at a supermarket, probably no friends beyond the confines of this family home, and her parents weren’t getting any younger. They too were victims. They’d lived to see their only daughter destroyed, the blossom of her youth stolen from her.
‘Alice, I’m hoping you may be able to help me,’ he said, softening his tone.
‘How can I help you?’ she replied, as though the request was an impossibility.
She recoiled as he told her about his visit to the abandoned boathouse.
‘I think they stopped using it after what happened,’ said Mr Fowler, taking a seat next to his daughter.
Lambert nodded. ‘We think Chief Superintendent Tillman might be being held prisoner somewhere. I don’t want to get into the details but this is what happened to Mr Devlin and Mr Kirby. Can you think of any places where Wyatt could be holding him? Our best guess is that it would be near or next to the river. Is there anywhere you used to go with the rowing team, or perhaps on your own with Wyatt?’
A flicker of anger emerged on Alice’s face, Lambert getting a glimpse into the character she once must have been. ‘I was only alone with him the once,’ she said, through gritted teeth.’
‘DCI Lambert, I must insist. You’re upsetting her. We’ve answered these questions a hundred times over,’ said Mr Fowler, a protective arm placed around his daughter.
‘Anywhere you can think of Alice, anywhere at all?’
‘I’ve told you everything,’ said Alice, not looking his way.
That much was true. They’d exhausted the search of every inch of the training ground used by the rowing team. Alice had always stated that the night of the attack was the first time she’d been alone with Wyatt and didn’t appear to be changing her story. He was about to ask her one last time when out of nowhere, her mother burst into tears.
Lambert had forgotten the woman was in the room. Like Alice, she seemed to shrink into her surroundings. She’d been standing against the living room wall and now her legs gave way.
‘See what you’ve done,’ said Mr Fowler, rushing to his wife’s aid.
Lambert stood. ‘What’s the matter, Mrs Fowler?’ he asked, holding his ground as Mr Fowler comforted the stricken woman.
‘He’s going to come for her, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Fowler, her voice broken by uncontrollable sobs.
‘No he is not,’ said Mr Fowler, his words stern and authoritative.
‘Your husband is right, Mrs Fowler. I don’t think Wyatt will be coming for Alice and we have a team situated outside your house so he won’t be able to get to you.’
Mr Fowler lifted his wife to his feet and with a sneer said, ‘That didn’t help your colleagues did it?
Chloe’s grandmother had already put his daughter to bed by the time Lambert reached home that evening. Thankfully, she didn’t stay long and he was able to return to the case after ordering a takeaway dinner.
He’d met Adrienne after visiting the Fowler household. She’d spent the day coordinating a search of riverside properties but the job was simply too big to hope for a positive result. Despite the Chief Constable’s request, news of Tillman’s disappearance had leaked, the Evening Standard running a front-page article on the case. Lambert saw it as a positive as they’d now been able to start using assistance from outside the Group.
Lambert considered the day’s events. He regretted not pushing Alice Fowler further. He’d caved in too soon once her mother became hysterical and her father offensive. There was no talking to them by the point and he’d left his card with Alice and asked her to call him if she could think of anything further. He would need to speak to her again, ideally without her parents being present.
He’d finished the takeaway by the time Sophie returned home. He was reading through case files whilst a number of reports scrolled through the screen of his laptop. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, bending over and kissing his cheek her breath light with the smell of alcohol. ‘I’m going up. Need to be back in first thing. You coming?’ she asked.
‘Not just yet.’
Sophie offered a mock pout of her lips before leaving him to it.
His eyes were tired but, still, he continued reading. He’d gone through every file numerous times already, and had run searches on the System, the new database the Group were testing. He was out of ideas. The hard truth was that if Wyatt didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. Tillman had thrown every resource into the disappearance of Devlin and Kirby so why would things be different this time?
Lambert swore and poured a glass of red wine from the bottle he’d opened but not touched earlier in the evening. It was an admis
sion that the night’s work was over. Once he’d started drinking, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. Despite its airing, the wine was acidic and not easy to drink. He took a second sip and tried one last search on the System. Although in its infancy, the database was connected to a number of organisations, including the prison where Wyatt had been held. Lambert ran a search on the prison staff. Tillman had already investigated every member of staff from the Governor down. He’d done the same for all of Wyatt’s former cell mates, had even gone so far as to locate every prisoner to have been released since Wyatt’s incarceration.
The second sip of wine was more palatable and a wave of heat overcame him. He clicked on one final button that listed the people who’d visited Wyatt at prison. It made for sad but interesting reading. In the last five years Wyatt had only ever received the one visitor: Daniel Hogg.
9
Lambert placed the glass down, his hand shaking, and reread the entry again. How in the hell had this been overlooked? Hogg had visited Wyatt fifteen times in the last four years of his sentence, the last visit only a month before his parole.
There was no time to wonder what that meant. He’d only had two swigs of the wine so was still able to drive. He found Hogg’s address from the System and grabbed his car keys.
It was close to midnight, the roads pleasingly empty. He didn’t call it in. It was too late to call Adrienne, and Hogg hadn’t done anything illegal. If anything, the sensible thing would be turn back home and wait for the morning but Lambert was irked. One way or another, Hogg had lied to him. He claimed he wasn't writing a story on Wyatt so why had he visited him so often? It was clear the journalist knew much more than he’d let on earlier that day, and Lambert was going to drag every single detail from him.
Rarely had he made such fast progress through the city. The Blackwall Tunnel was all but empty and he reached Hogg’s address in Barking within an hour. The journalist lived in a new-build cul-de-sac not far from the train station. It wasn’t where Lambert had imagined Hogg would live and he realised he knew very little about the journalist, save for what he’d picked up during their two encounters. He was pleased to see the light on in Hogg’s front room. Out of precaution – he had no way of knowing the extent of Hogg’s relationship with Wyatt - he radioed in his location and knocked on the front door.