by Matt Brolly
Lambert thought it was possibly the greatest meal he’d ever tasted. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he spoke to Chloe. ‘I think you missed a bit,’ he said, pointing to his daughter’s face that was smothered in red sauce.
Sophie laughed and handed her a napkin. Chloe wiped her mouth succeeding only in spreading the mess further up her face.
It was difficult to leave. After the fallout from the Fowler case, the normality of home life had become even more attractive. There was nothing more he would rather do at that moment then spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening with his wife and daughter. He only had to make the short commute into central London, and would be back later that evening but, kissing Chloe goodbye on the doorstep, he felt as if he was going away for months.
The walk to Clock House station was painful. He’d gone through a course of painkillers for his knee but still felt a twinge every time he applied full pressure. His other leg was suffering now as he was over-compensating, and he promised himself he would book a physiotherapist appointment for later that week.
Ninety minutes later, he was at the Group’s Headquarters. It was Tillman’s first day back since the Fowler arrests and he’d requested Lambert meet with him at the end of the day.
The rest of the team were busy in the outer office. The Fowler case was more or less in the past now and they were working on more important projects safe in the knowledge that Tillman was back with them. ‘I thought you were on a half day,’ said Adrienne, looking up from her desk.
‘His highness requested my presence,’ said Lambert.
‘He’s only been back a day. What have you done now?’
‘He lives to torment me,’ said Lambert.
‘It’s thanks to you he lives at all.’
Lambert nodded and moved towards Tillman’s office. Tom and Valerie Fowler were in custody following the events by the river. Tom Fowler had confessed to the murders of Devlin, Kirby, and Wyatt. He would most likely be spending the rest of his life behind bars. Tom Fowler’s statement had included allegations about Devlin and Kirby attacking Wyatt all those years ago. Tillman had been questioned over the incident, as had Hogg. It was all conjecture. Tillman was the only survivor from that night and wasn’t about to place himself in trouble. One day he might share exactly what had happened with Lambert, but that wasn't going to happen any day soon.
Valerie Fowler had been charged with conspiracy to murder as well as possession and use of an illegal firearm. The outcome of her case was less clear-cut. Her husband denied she had any part to play in the murders and she was refusing to confess despite what she’d told Lambert that night. Both were on suicide watch and would remain so for some time.
It was Alice Fowler who was of greater concern to Lambert. For the first time in her life, she was living without the support of her parents. She’d been appointed a counsellor and despite what happened by the river, Lambert had visited her on a number of occasions. He’d been surprised by the change in the woman. He didn’t know if it was the death of Wyatt, or the incarceration of her parents, but she appeared to be not only surviving but thriving on her own. There was a lightness to her and she looked years younger. With Lambert’s assistance, she’d enrolled on a pathway course at a UCL as a prelude to starting a degree. Lambert hoped she could now put her life together and maybe fulfil some of the promise Wyatt had taken from her.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ said Lambert, taking a seat opposite his boss.
Tillman smirked but there was little humour in the gesture. Lambert had to admit he looked good. The weight he’d lost took a couple of years off him and from a cursory glance it was hard to believe he’d even been held captive. Yet, a closer look at his narrow grey eyes revealed a change to the man. Tillman would never reveal to him what he was thinking, or the psychological impact his incarceration had on him. He’d shared the details of the waterboarding and it was a miracle he’d survived mentally at all. Tillman hated to demonstrate weakness and no doubt considered his abduction a failure. His eyes suggested a hardening to a personality that was already granite strong. ‘Take a seat, why don’t you,’ said Tillman.
Lambert smiled at the sarcasm. Both of them had avoided one aspect of that night by the river. During interrogation, Tom Fowler had made some overtures that Tillman had tried to kill him and although it would be brought up in court, the fact that Tillman had been cuffed and led to the river meant that it was unlikely any jury would listen to Fowler’s plea. Mrs Fowler and Alice had different recollections of the events and neither had backed up Mr Fowler’s story.
Tillman grimaced and for one awful second, Lambert thought he was about to cry. ‘I just wanted to thank you,’ he said.
Lambert was almost as surprised by the gratitude as he would have been had Tillman had started to cry.
‘You were right to stop me. I wasn't thinking straight at that time. You know what he did to me…’
‘You don’t need to defend yourself to me, Glenn.’
Lambert had already come to terms with what had happened. In his report, Lambert had included everything that had happened that night. It was a question of context. He’d described Tillman’s attack on Fowler as a further altercation between the pair which to a certain extent was the truth. He couldn’t be sure as to Tillman’s intent and saw no point offering an opinion. Fowler was still alive and Lambert saw no need for Tillman’s career to suffer for the sake of a murderer who’d forced him to endure days of torture.
As for what had happened on the night Tillman rescued Alice Fowler, that was one for his boss’s conscience. Lambert had no doubt that Tillman had done the right thing stopping Devlin and Kirby killing Wyatt. He couldn’t say the same about Tillman’s ensuing silence. Devlin and Kirby had left the force shortly afterwards and Wyatt had correctly been incarcerated. Tillman had no way of knowing if speaking up sooner would have stopped Fowler killing his victims. He wished Tillman had told him about it sooner but was prepared to give his boss the benefit of the doubt. In his own twisted way, he’d still been protecting Devlin and Kirby’s reputation and Lambert admired his sense of loyalty, however ill-judged.
Tillman nodded as if his thoughts had been matching Lambert’s. ‘Either way, Michael, I appreciate what you did for me. I won’t forget it.’
‘I feel like we’re in a movie, here Glenn,’ said Lambert, trying to make light of the conversation. ‘Next you’ll be telling me you owe me a favour.’
Tillman narrowed his eyes, and tilted his head to the side.
They never spoke directly about either night again.
Preview of Dead Eyed (DCI Lambert 1)
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Now, keep reading for a sneak peek of DCI Lambert book 1, Dead Eyed…
Dead Eyed
Prologue
The man hovered on the edge of the dance floor. His elongated limbs and thinning hair made him stand out from the young lithe bodies. Sam Burnham watched him from the bar, nursing the same brandy he’d ordered an hour ago.
The track ended and the man shuffled his feet. He scanned the mirrored dance area before heading towards the bar.
Burnham ordered a second drink. He sensed the man in his periphery, and turned to face him. He placed his hand on the younger man’s arm, and looked him directly in the eyes.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked.
The man nodded, staring at Burnham. Twenty minutes later they left the club together.
‘What now?’ asked Burnham, pulling his jacket tight against his body. It was a late September evening in Bristol, and the temperature had dropped since he’d set out earlier that day.
‘Where are you staying?’ asked the man. His eyes darted in random directions, not once focusing on Burnham.
‘Hotel. You wouldn’t like it. Do you
live near?’ Burnham knew exactly where he lived.
‘I’m not sure,’ said the man. ‘I don’t know you.’
Burnham touched the man’s arm again. It was the simplest of techniques, but highly effective.
The man relented. ‘It’s not far away. We can walk.’
The man lived in Southville, a small suburb of Bristol less than a mile from the centre. They walked in an awkward silence, peppered with the occasional question from the man.
The man stopped outside a block of flats. ‘I don’t mean to sound weird, but do I know you from somewhere?’
‘I don’t think so. I guess I must have one of those faces,’ said Burnham, following him inside.
The flat was hospital clean, the air fragranced artificially. The living area was an array of various gleaming surfaces: glass, chrome, marble. Burnham accepted a glass of brandy. The man’s hands trembled as he handed it over.
They moved to the living room sofa and the man made life easy for him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said, his voice faltering.
As soon as Burnham heard the bathroom door click shut, he removed the phial from his inside jacket pocket. He broke the seal and spilled the clear liquid into the man’s drink, stirring it with his left index finger.
It took five minutes for the man to take a drink. A further five minutes for the drug to take effect. Burnham dragged him to the bedroom, the man’s skeletal body insubstantial in his thick arms. He placed the man on the bed and made a phone call.
Burnham’s boss arrived at the flat two minutes later carrying a small leather case. Burnham watched in silence as he removed a surgical outfit, a set of scalpels, and a second phial filled with a different substance. ‘Wait in the car,’ he ordered.
It was three hours before his boss left the building. Burnham hurried from his seat and opened the back passenger door for him.
‘Do you need me to clean up?’ he asked.
‘No, not this time.’
Chapter One
Michael Lambert waited at the back of the coffee shop. To his right, a group of new mothers congregated around three wooden tables. Some held their tiny offspring; the others allowed their babies to sleep in the oversized prams which crowded the area. Two tables down, a pair of men dressed in identical suits stared at their iPads. Next to them, a young woman with braided hair read a paperback novel. All of them looked up as Simon Klatzky walked through the shop entrance and shouted over at him.
Lambert ignored the glances. He’d arrived thirty minutes earlier, out of habit checking and rechecking the clientele. He hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. He stood and beckoned Klatzky over. He’d last seen him two years ago at the funeral. ‘Good to see you again, Simon,’ he said.
‘Mikey,’ said Klatzky. Like Lambert, Klatzky was thirty-eight. He’d lost weight since the last time they’d met. His face was gaunt, his eyeballs laced with thin shards of red. When he spoke, Lambert noticed a number of missing teeth. The rest were discoloured and black with cheap fillings. His face cracked into a smile. He stood grinning at Lambert. In his left hand he clutched an A4 manila envelope.
‘Sit down then. What do you want to drink?’ said Lambert.
Klatzky shrugged. ‘Coffee?’
Lambert ordered two black Americanos and returned to the table.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Klatzky.
Klatzky had called earlier that morning desperate to meet. He’d refused to tell Lambert the details over the phone but had insisted that it was urgent. From the smell of him, it hadn’t been important enough to stop him visiting a bar first.
Klatzky’s hands shook as he sipped the coffee. ‘I thought it best you see for yourself,’ he said, looking at the envelope still clutched tight in his hand.
Lambert sat straight in his chair, scratching a day’s growth of stubble on his face. It was genuinely good to see his old friend. He’d only agreed to meet him as he’d sounded so scared on the phone. Now he was here, Lambert regretted not seeing more of him in the last two years.
‘How have you been, Si?’
‘So-so. I’m sorry I haven’t called before.’ He hesitated. ‘And now, contacting you in these circumstances.’ He still had a strong grip on the envelope, his knuckles turning white with the effort.
‘I’m not working at the moment, Simon.’
‘I didn’t know who else to talk to.’ Klatzky produced a bottle of clear liquid from his grainy-black rain jacket and poured half the contents into his coffee cup.
Some things didn’t change. ‘Are you going to show me then?’ Lambert didn’t want to rush him, but he didn’t like surprises. He needed to know what Klatzky wanted.
Klatzky drank heavily from the alcohol-fused drink, momentarily confused.
‘The envelope, Si.’
Klatzky stared at the envelope as if it had just appeared in his hand. He handed it to Lambert, his body trembling.
Klatzky’s name and address were printed on the front. There was no stamp. ‘You received this today?’
‘It was there when I got back.’
‘Back from where?’
‘I was out last night. Got in early this morning.’ He looked at Lambert as if expecting a reprimand.
Lambert opened the envelope and pulled out a file of A4 papers. Each page had a colour photo of the same subject taken from a different angle. Lambert tapped the table with the knuckles of his left hand as he read through the file.
‘It’s him, Mike,’ said Klatzky.
The subject was the deceased figure of an emaciated man. The skin of the corpse was a dull yellow. Wisps of frazzled hair clung to the man’s cheek bones, matted together with a green-brown substance. The corpse’s mouth was wide open, caught forever in a look of rictus surprise. Where the man’s eyes should have been were two hollow sockets. Tendrils of skin and matter dripped down onto the man’s face. Lambert recognised the Latin insignia carved intricately into the man’s chest. He placed the file back in the envelope, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.
‘Well?’ asked Klatzky.
‘Where did you get this from?’
Klatzky poured more of the clear liquid into his cup. ‘I told you. It was there this morning when I got back. Why the hell has this been sent to me, Mike?’ he asked, loud enough to receive some disapproving looks from the young mothers.
Lambert rubbed his face. If he’d known what was in the envelope, then he would never have suggested meeting in such a public place. ‘I’ll talk to some people. See what I can find out. I’ll need to keep this,’ he said.
‘But why was it sent to me, Mikey?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lambert checked the address on the envelope. ‘You’re still in the same flat, over in East Ham?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Have you seen anyone else recently?’
‘You mean from Uni? No. You’re the first one I’ve seen since the…’ he hesitated. ‘Since, the funeral.’
Lambert replayed the images in his head, trying to ignore the expectation etched onto Klatzky’s face. The inscription on the victim’s chest read:
In oculis animus habitat.
The lettering, smudged by leaking blood, had dried into thick maroon welts on the pale skin of the man’s body. Lambert didn’t need to see the man’s eyeless sockets to work out the translation:
The soul dwells in the eyes.
They left the coffee house together. ‘Do you have somewhere else you can go?’ asked Lambert.
‘Why? Do you think I’m next?’ asked Klatzky.
Lambert wasn’t sure what Klatzky had put in his coffee but the man was swaying from side to side. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Let’s not panic. These might not have come from the murderer. But until we do find out where they came from, and why they were sent to you, it would be sensible to stay away from the flat.’
‘Should we tell Billy’s parents or something? Christ, what are they are going to think?’
Billy Nolan had been the ninth a
nd, until now, last victim of the so called Souljacker killer. A close friend of Lambert and Klatzky, Nolan was murdered in his final year at Bristol University where they had all studied. The killer had never been caught and everything Lambert had seen in the file suggested that he had started working again.
‘Look, you need to get somewhere and rest up. Let me worry about the details.’
‘I want to help, Mikey.’
‘You can stay out of trouble. That will help the most. I’ll contact you when I know something.’ He grabbed Klatzky’s hand and shook it. ‘It’ll be okay, Si.’
Klatzky’s handshake was weak, his palm wet with sweat. He swayed for a second before stumbling across the road to a bar called The Blue Boar.
Lambert stood outside the coffee shop, his hand clutched tight to the envelope. Years ago Lambert would have jumped straight into the investigation. The responsible thing would be to locate the Senior Investigating Officer on the case, inform them that Klatzky had received the material. But he needed time to process the information, to decipher why Klatzky had received the photos.
He walked to Clockhouse station and caught a train to Charing Cross, his mind racing. Making sure no one could see him, he opened the envelope. He scanned each page in turn, studied every detail. The photographs were direct copies from a crime report. The photographer had captured the corpse from all angles. The camera zoomed in on the victim’s wounds. The ragged skin around the eye sockets, the incision marks magnified in gruesome detail, the intricate detail of the Latin inscription, each letter meticulously carved into the victim’s skin. It was definitely a professional job.
Reaching London, Lambert took the short walk to Covent Garden. His wife, Sophie, was waiting for him in a small bistro off the old market building. She sat near the entrance, head buried in a leather folio. ‘Oh, hi,’ she said, on seeing him.
‘Hi, yourself.’
She shut the document she’d been reading. ‘Shall we order?’ she asked, business-like as usual.