Dead Embers

by Matt Brolly

  * * *

  Gladys’s last words stayed with Lambert as he checked Leonard Hodge’s file back in the station. Lost in the darkness. The words played in his head as he remembered the aftermath of Chloe’s death. He too had been lost in the darkness then. He’d been driving when Chloe died, the accident sending him into a coma. When he’d awoken to the news of her death, he’d desperately wanted to retreat back to that nothingness.

  Was it courage or cowardice which propelled Leonard to take the one final step Lambert had been unable to take? Leonard had committed suicide on the day of his fiftieth birthday, ten years after the stillbirth. He had suffered a decade of grief which had eventually proved too much for him.

  The visit to Gladys Hodge had proven a success, in part. They now had an explanation for the Fireman’s arson, and the information on his father’s suicide hinted at a reason for Hodge approaching Berry and Turner. However, they were no closer to discovering why he had decided to kidnap the Jardines, and why he’d replaced their bodies with Berry and Turner.

  A knock on the door tore him from his thoughts.

  ‘Sir?’ said Matilda, walking into the office.

  Lambert had yet to adjust to the change in Matilda’s appearance. He’d been at school with a girl who had a birthmark which covered over half of her face. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, the shock of what looked like a painful maroon patch on that smiling face. Within a few months, it had been like the mark wasn’t there. He stopped noticing and recalled being surprised when a new boy at the school mentioned it to him. He wondered now if the same would ever be true when he looked at Matilda. If anything, the scar tissue looked more painful than ever. The affected skin spread from her eye down to her neck, the skin mottled and peppered with blotches of colour. The contrast of the unblemished skin on the other side of her face somehow made the effect worse.

  ‘Some updates for you from the site,’ said Matilda, moving her hand briefly to the scarred flesh as if he’d been staring too long.

  ‘Sit,’ said Lambert, shutting his laptop.

  ‘From what they can tell the explosion was set remotely, as we thought. Little remains of the device we saw. Chapman believes the room was packed with PE-4, a plastic explosive, hence the ferocity of the blast.’

  ‘I take it we’re on to that.’

  ‘Yes, checking who holds licenses, and obviously anywhere missing inventory.’

  ‘Go through each name for a connection. Someone may have gotten hold of it for him. Let’s find out if it was something he could make himself.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Lambert updated her on his meeting with Gladys Hodge.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Matilda. ‘That explains a lot.’

  Lambert thought again about Gladys, her fierce defiance despite all that had happened to her. ‘I think we should put some uniforms at her home in case her son makes a visit.’

  The care home had confirmed Gladys hadn’t had any visitors in the last couple of years, but Lambert believed the Fireman was going through some form of crisis. Nothing about the fire at the Jardine house or today’s explosion at the bungalow matched the profile Lambert had of the man from his file. It suggested something had snapped in Trevor Hodge. It was akin to a serial killer making his first kill. Those in custody always said the first kill was the hardest. Once that hurdle was overcome they were often released, whatever empathy they once had for potential victims fading into nothingness. The Fireman’s actions were becoming more and more unstable and unpredictable. If he was ever going to resolve things with his mother it would be now.

  ‘I’ll get someone on it,’ said Matilda. ‘I coordinated interviews with Hodge’s neighbours, and circulated the image from the CCTV cameras at Waterloo. Not one of the neighbours recalls seeing him. The bungalow has been derelict for at least a year, according to one of the locals.’

  ‘It still had electricity. Get onto the utility companies, find out who’s been paying the bills. We need to get hold of Hodge’s bank details too, and apply to get his accounts shut. If we’re lucky, we’ll get another address for him. What about Boxall?’

  ‘He’s been sent back to Cornwall pending further investigation of his website.’

  Matilda left the room, a slight limp to her gait as if something was in her shoe. On the System, Lambert flicked through photos of the crater which had ripped through the line of bungalows. They’d searched all the rooms in the place, so he was sure the Jardines had not been held there. It suggested the Fireman had another address, or at least somewhere he was holding the pair. Presuming, that was, they were still alive.

  He drove to Sophie’s house before returning home. Once again, he’d driven there on instinct, muscle memory guiding him back to the place which had been his home for over ten years whilst his mind tried to unravel the mysteries of the case.

  Did she know he was there, made these occasional visits? He was little better than a stalker. He should start the car and drive away but being there brought a sense of calm that was missing elsewhere in his life, especially given what was happening with Sarah. He knew it was a regression, a way of fooling himself that the past could be recaptured. He opened the door, and leant against the car gazing across to the house. Sophie would welcome him. She would be surprised but she would invite him in, would probably welcome the opportunity to show him Jane, Chloe’s sister.

  His hands began to go numb against the freezing metal of the car’s roof. If only he could step forward, cross the road and knock on the door, but his legs wouldn’t move. He took one final glance up at the pulled curtains of the room where Chloe had once slept in her cot, before returning to the safety of the car. ‘Fuck,’ he screamed, as the car roared into life and he drove away.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Struck with guilt, Lambert called Sarah as he left Sophie’s house. She agreed to meet him in a bar in Blackheath, an area of south-east London where she’d rented a studio apartment. He parked up thirty minutes later, already regretting his suggestion to meet.

  A fierce wind attacked as he dragged himself up the high street. At first he’d been surprised when Sarah had decided to move to the area. She’d been attacked and kidnapped in the village when working on the Souljacker case, and only when she’d explained she didn’t want the place to have a hold on her did he understand. It said much about her that she would be willing to face such a traumatic memory on a daily basis, yet they’d never really discussed the matter.

  A wave of heat rushed him as he made his way into the pub at the top of the hill. The small bar was bustling with patrons. Lambert made a circuit of the place, searching for Sarah. The bar had a faint underlying smell of spilt beer, which Lambert suspected no amount of scrubbing would ever mask. He ordered a pint of lager, taking a large initial gulp of the golden liquid, and thought how easy it would be to spend a few hours in such a place and to forget about the case and all it entailed.

  He was on his second drink, a small bottle of ale, when Sarah arrived. He noticed immediately she was stressed, her face drawn and agitated as she made his way to him. ‘You OK?’ he said, as she kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Yeah, one of those days.’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Just some sparkling water please.’

  Lambert attracted the attention of the barman and ordered two sparkling waters. ‘Matilda’s back in action,’ he said, handing a glass to Sarah, who had taken off her coat and relaxed.

  ‘Great. How is she?

  ‘Same as ever,’ said Lambert. He went to tell her about everything that happened in the short time since they’d last spoken but decided he could do with a bit of time away from the case. Even if it was only an hour or so, focusing on something different.

  Sarah wasn’t very talkative either. He could see the tiredness in her eyes, and after they finished their drinks they left the bar. They walked back to her flat, side by side but not touching. At the entrance to the flat, Sarah stopped. She offered him a tired smile. ‘I need s
ome rest,’ she said.

  ‘Of course. I’ve got to get back to the case anyway.’

  Sarah nodded a couple of times, not speaking.

  Lambert felt something slipping away. He wanted to suggest they go away together, get away from everything, but sensed desperation in the thought. Instead, he stood there like an awkward teenager on a date.

  ‘Goodnight then,’ said Sarah. She leant towards him, and kissed him on the cheek. She began to pull away but he held her for a second longer, noting a new perfume on her neck. As they disentangled she looked confused.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, overcome by a growing mood of melancholy as he retreated to the car.

  * * *

  Lambert headed back towards Dartford and the care home where Gladys Hodge resided. He hoped the drive would calm him, take his mind off both Sophie and Sarah, and he couldn’t face going home at that moment.

  Tillman called, demanding an update. ‘I’m getting grief from all angles over this,’ he said, once again surprising Lambert with his tone. Tillman knew as well as he did everything that could be done was being done.

  ‘Something is off on this case, Glenn. You must see that.’

  ‘All I see is a missing police officer and her husband, two corpses, and a second building burnt to the ground. How hard can it be to find this guy? I’ve read his file, he’s not exactly brain trust material.’

  ‘Kennedy has gone through the list of organisations licensed to use plastic explosives. We’ll be conducting interviews tomorrow, trying to find a link between anyone on that list and Hodge. He must have got them from somewhere.’

  ‘That’s all you’ve got for me?’

  Lambert was used to this approach from Tillman. Even after the years of working together, and the secrets they shared, he still felt the need to display his authority over him. Lambert usually ignored it, but Tillman’s timing couldn’t have been worse. ‘Are you fucking kidding me, Glenn? I was almost blown up today, as was your girlfriend.’

  The line went silent. Lambert pictured Tillman at the other end, gripping his phone so tight that it would come close to shattering in his hand. ‘We agreed not to mention that, especially on the phone,’ said Tillman, his voice lowered, rough and guttural.

  ‘I’m hanging up now, sir,’ said Lambert, doing so.

  He should be used to such encounters by now, but Tillman always brought out the worst in him. Despite their years together, a distance had always existed in their relationship. Maybe it was because of their secrets, not despite them. Lambert knew things which could destroy Tillman’s career, and sometimes he wondered if this had protected him from his superior. Tillman was not a man to cross, and even now Lambert wasn’t sure he could be trusted.

  He made slow time reaching Dartford, tailbacks stretching for miles on the approach to the tunnel. The case played in his head, from the time Tillman had first given him the case to the explosion this morning. There was a connection they were missing, something simple that would link Hodge, Berry, Turner and the Jardines.

  It was nine pm by the time he reached the care home, time enough for Lambert to wonder what he was doing there. He was pleased to see a patrol car in the home’s car-park as he drove past. The cost would be prohibitive but budget was not much of an issue when a missing officer was involved. He parked up further down the street, turning the car so he could face the entrance.

  From his wallet, he took out the picture of the young Trevor Hodge which Gladys had given him. He’d been innocent then, and would have been treated as such. Now he’d reached adulthood, society no longer considered the events which had shaped the man. The thoughts which had twisted his mind towards arson, the suicide of his father which had possibly triggered something else in him: neither would suffice as a defence. It might provoke an ember of understanding, which could result in some form of mitigation, a sentence in a mental health detention centre, but the child in the photo no longer existed.

  Lambert put the picture away, the photo prompting thoughts of Teresa Jardine. He’d felt the girl had been an oversight, not part of the arsonist’s initial plans, but now he knew Hodge’s history he wondered if she wasn’t the target all along. It sounded perverse, but the mind was a curious thing. Hodge’s stillborn sister had altered the young man forever, and it was impossible to conceive how such an obsession could manifest itself. Did Hodge somehow see his sister in Teresa?

  Lambert’s eyes began to feel heavy. He switched the A/C unit to cold and let the recycled air flood the car in an attempt to fight sleep but the first flicker of colour appeared to the left of his vision. He locked the doors from within, and turned off the ignition before reclining his chair as the colours swamped his eyes. He studied the patterns for as long as he could, the fire images more prominent than ever as if in honour of the real fires which blighted Lambert’s waking life, before slumping to sleep.

  He snapped awake, for a brief second confused by his surroundings. A check of the digital clock told him he’d been asleep for three hours. He groaned as he pulled his chair upright, a nerve trapped in his neck.

  Rain bounced off the car, as he studied the thinning traffic and a lone couple walking the street. Things felt clearer for the sleep, and, noting the patrol car was still there, he started his car. His presence here was pointless. He pulled the car into the road, momentarily distracted by something he saw in the rear-view mirror. He drove back the way he came, past the care home and the silhouetted figures of the two uniformed officers in their car, noting the letters and numbers of the number plate he’d glimpsed in the mirror.

  As he turned the corner, it came back to him. He’d seen that number plate before. He braked heavily, a car behind him blaring his horn. Lambert flicked on his hazard lights and pulled over. He studied his sat-nav, searching for a different route back to the care home. He swung the car back into the road, making his way back towards the building, his mind trying to quantify the reason for the car being there. He drove around the block and parked up a hundred yards away from the dark saloon.

  He needed to see a face to confirm. From the boot of his car, he retrieved a raincoat which he pulled on, zipping it to this throat and pulling it over his head to hide his appearance. He was used to this sort of work, the kind of basic surveillance he’d been taught when moving to Tillman’s Group, identifying a suspect without being spotted in return. As he made his way toward the car he practised his movements in his head. The line of cars was on his right, and he glanced at the interior of each car with a minimal turn of his eye.

  He didn’t stop as he approached the black saloon. Confirming the number plate he’d seen in his rear-view mirror, he walked straight past. The driver was in his seat on the roadside. Lambert glanced at him as he moved past, cursing himself for turning his head more than necessary.

  He continued walking, not once looking back, hoping the figure hadn’t recognised him. When he reached the end of the road, he took the slow way around the block on foot, the rain lashing at him, until he reached the car and peeled off the raincoat. Some of the water had soaked through to his suit and he switched on the heating as he started the engine.

  He hadn’t been mistaken. The car belonged to the Anti-Corruption officer, Duggan, who had questioned him the other evening about Tillman at the Chislehurst station. Lambert considered confronting him. There was no reason for him to be staking out the home. Even if Lambert was under investigation as well as Tillman, which was a possibility, Duggan shouldn’t be interfering in an active case. The only positive Lambert could take from the situation was the knowledge that Duggan was up to something. A confrontation with the man now would negate that advantage. Instead, Lambert did a three-point turn and headed away from the AC officer.

  Forty minutes later he stood outside the ruins of the bungalow in Romford. Mercifully, the rain had stopped. In its stead, a bitter wind whistled through the police tape and the fallen walls of the house.

  Lambert stepped under the tape, walking through the gap where a door
had been earlier that day. The interior of the bungalow was now rubble. Lambert clambered over a mound of bricks to the area which used to be the living room. Somehow, the skeletal remains of the sofa were still intact. He perched himself on the metal frame and looked skyward, glancing at the parade of stars above. There was something magical about sitting in the debris, glancing at the heavens. Maybe it was the sense of unreality, the juxtaposition of sitting in the open air with the memory of the claustrophobic tour he’d made of the house earlier.

  He searched every inch of the house before returning to the car. Anything of value would have already been processed by the SOCOs, and not for the first time that night he wondered what he was doing in a location.

  On the road, he scanned the area as he’d done earlier that day. Had the Fireman been watching, waiting for them to be clear of the house before setting off the detonation? Once again, Lambert couldn’t help but think that the arsonist was desperate for attention. Furthermore, he couldn’t shift the inkling that Hodge wasn’t perhaps the cold-hearted killer they presumed he was.

  It was past one am by the time he reached home. It was unlikely he would sleep now, after his three hours in the car, so he opened his laptop and went straight to work. His first call was the System, where he analysed Duggan’s file once more.

  Lambert had been in this type of situation before. Everything about the case, from his selection as SIO to the bizarre meeting with the senior police officers and the politician, Weaver, and now Duggan’s surveillance, had the feeling of a conspiracy about it. He accepted he had the experience to lead the case, but an arson attack, even one featuring a fellow officer, was not normally the type of case with which the NCA would usually get involved. Lambert felt he was somehow being manipulated, and that was not something he could tolerate.

  The file on Duggan was threadbare. Being in Anti-Corruption set the officer apart and even the intricacies of the System couldn’t make inroads into his file. Lambert turned his attention to the fire at the bungalow today, distraught to find the list of contractors licensed to use plastic explosives was longer than he’d expected.