‘Sophie,’ said Lambert, stepping into the vehicle. ‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s been unconscious ever since we were taken. Why the hell did this happen, Michael?’ Sophie’s eyes fixed on him, as if everything was his fault. Blood dripped down his wife’s white nightgown, his daughter prone on the gurney. She had every right to blame him, and he had to accept it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the words meaningless.
‘I’ll let you know what happens,’ said Sophie, holding his gaze.
‘OK,’ said Lambert, leaving the ambulance. He stood motionless as the ambulance carried his family away.
Tillman and Sarah were talking outside the house as SOCOs moved around him, yet he’d never felt so alone.
* * *
Lambert spent the night at a hotel. Sophie sent him a single text message telling him Jane was fine and they were going to her mother’s for a few days. He called her back seven times, the phone going straight to answerphone, before giving in.
He sat staring at the wall, a glass brimming with single malt in his hand.
* * *
Sleep must have come at some point. He woke, still sitting on the chair, bright sunshine leaking through the blinds of the hotel room. Miraculously, his glass was still in his hand, the dregs of the whisky swirling around the bottom. It was an effort to move. His mouth was coated in a thick, mucus-like substance, his chest aching as he made his way to the bathroom.
The room moved in and out of focus as he recalled the previous night’s events. And despite the horror of Anna Saunders’ house, the bullets he’d been forced to put into Louise Saunders, all he could think about was the way Sophie had looked at him. It reminded him of the time they’d split up, when she’d finally had enough of him, but he couldn’t see any way back this time. There had been more than accusation in those eyes. She’d given up on him, as if realizing he’d been at fault all along, that her life would be infinitely better without him. She now understood. Everything he’d ever blamed himself for – the days and nights of neglect when he’d worked late, the death of his first daughter, and now the kidnapping of Sophie and Jane – it was all his fault, and there would be no coming back.
He was pulling on his clothes when there was a knock on the door. He checked the peephole, too hungover to care who was there. Through the distorted glass he made out the image of Matilda Kennedy, twirling her red hair as she waited for him to answer.
Lambert didn’t recall telling anyone where he was staying. ‘Now’s not a great time,’ he said, opening the door.
Matilda ignored him, pushing past him into the open room. ‘Jeez, this room smells as bad as you do,’ she said, opening a window. ‘Are you OK, Michael?’ she asked.
It was surreal to hear Matilda using his first name. ‘I’ve had better nights.’
Matilda glanced around the room noticing the two-thirds empty bottle of whisky, the chair facing the window. ‘I’d like to say for the record I don’t think this is a good idea but Glenn is waiting downstairs. They’re still planning to move Jonathan Barnes today.’
Lambert collapsed on the bed, his stomach lurching. ‘How can they move him after all this?’ he asked, attempting to keep the contents of the whisky bottle from reappearing.
‘The MI5 agent, Partridge, had the final say. They’re planning to move him in two hours. Do you think you can make it?’ Matilda boiled the kettle, offering him a cup of black instant coffee.
‘We’ll have to get something better than this,’ said Lambert, wincing as he sipped at the coffee.
* * *
‘You just left a nightclub?’ said Tillman, as Lambert climbed into the front passenger seat, Matilda sitting in the back. ‘You smell like the homeland.’
‘I didn’t know you were Scottish?’ said Lambert, groaning as he pulled the seatbelt across his tender body.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me,’ said Tillman. He was acting brash, like nothing had happened, but Lambert noted the concern. ‘You better take this,’ he said, handing him his warrant card.
Lambert tried to hide the tremble in his hand as he took the leather wallet, the alcohol still very much in his system. ‘How did you get this?’ he asked, his voice a fading croak.
‘I spoke to the Chief Constable. I pointed out what a disgrace it was Tanner had suspended you over Duggan and he agreed.’
‘But I shot someone four times – I’m surprised anti-corruption haven’t taken me in yet.’
Tillman started the car. ‘As I told you yesterday, you were working for me undercover. You’re the fucking hero here, Michael. You found the killers of three innocent men, one a police officer, and managed to rescue your wife and child for good measure. You really think the Chief wants you prosecuted? That disturbed young woman was going to kill your baby. Every parent on earth would have done what you did, and I’ll be pointing that out at every turn.’
Lambert didn’t share his optimism but thanked him anyway. He was amazed when the man pulled over and asked him and Matilda what they wanted from the coffee shop.
‘You’ve made a new man out of him,’ Lambert said to Matilda, as Tillman left the car.
‘If I was you I’d make the most of it. I don’t think we’ll see its like again anytime soon.’
Lambert managed a chuckle. ‘I think you may be right.’
Tillman returned with a large black Americano and a bacon roll, and Lambert thought he’d never tasted anything better. The grease and caffeine ate away at the alcohol and by the time they reached Woolwich his head was almost back to normal.
He welcomed the bitter fresh air outside, welcomed further the sight of Sarah May. She embraced him without speaking, Tillman and Matilda walking away.
‘I wanted to call you, but I knew you had to be with Sophie and Jane. Are they OK?’
Lambert recalled Sophie’s parting glare, the single text message she’d offered him. Too hungover, he smiled and said, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
Jonathan Barnes’ transport, a reinforced police riot van, was waiting in the holding area where Tillman had parked. Next to the van were four blacked-out SUVs. As Tillman and Matilda returned to the car, Lambert caught site of the MI5 agent, Partridge, walking towards them.
‘No, no, no,’ said the agent, striding towards them as if walking on hot coals.
Lambert couldn’t help but laugh at the look of disdain on Tillman’s face as Partridge stopped two metres short of him.
‘Excuse me?’ said Tillman.
‘Chief Superintendent Tillman… I am—’
‘I know who you are,’ said Tillman, interrupting.
‘How did you get through security?’ asked Partridge, momentarily curious. ‘Never mind that, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘We’re here to make sure the prisoner, Jonathan Barnes, is transferred successfully.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Partridge, full of sarcasm. ‘We always welcome the support of the local constabulary. But hang on, I do believe DCI Lambert here is currently under suspension, and DCI May has been taken off the Peter Saunders’ case. In fact, I took her off myself. Furthermore, I have been given full authority over the transfer of Barnes, so if you all don’t mind…’
‘Finished?’ said Tillman, pulling out an envelope from his inside coat pocket and handing it to the agent.
Partridge produced a pair of spectacles and read the note within.
‘From Chief Constable Alexander Mitchell of the Metropolitan Police, no less,’ said Tillman, mimicking Partridge’s tone. ‘Let me paraphrase it for you to save you some time. We are to accompany the transfer party of Jonathan Barnes.’ Tillman was on his best infuriating behaviour, lacing his fingers and smiling at the agent.
To his credit, Partridge didn’t respond to the taunt. ‘Fine, the more the merrier. Shall we get this convoy moving?’
And a convoy it was. Three of the SUVs, both containing armed guards, took the lead, followed by the riot van, Tillman’s car, and in the rear the
last SUV carrying Partridge and his team.
It seemed unthinkable the Manor would try anything after recent events. Even if there was an insider providing information, it would take something on an audacious scale to free Barnes from this motorcade.
The riot van was windowless and Lambert couldn’t see the prisoner within. He wondered if the man had been told about his daughter. Her death filled Lambert with a numbness. As Tillman pointed out, she was a murderer and would have more than likely killed Jane had he not stopped her. But it should never have reached that stage. Her father had corrupted her and her brother from birth. They’d never had a chance. She pitied Louise and Edmund for what they’d been and what they’d become. He blamed Jonathan Barnes without reservation. Part of him wished that he had been responsible for the acid attack which disfigured the man. On behalf of Alistair Beckinsale, Lance Jenkins, Inspector Duggan, and even Edmund and Louise, he would happily inflict the same amount of pain again without a second thought.
The transfer went without a hitch. Lambert caught a glimpse of Barnes’ melted face as he was shuttled from the van into Luton prison and could only hope his life would be hell within his new home.
The Governor, Stuart Pierson, was under suspension pending investigation into his relationship with Barnes’ wife, Brenda. Lambert wasn’t sure if it would be enough to get the man dismissed, but with all the surrounding controversy he imagined the man would lose his job. He would also be answering some questions in the near future about how Peter Saunders managed to escape custody, as would many others.
Chapter Forty-Six
Lambert returned home that evening. Sophie and Jane were still at Glenda’s house and the house felt empty. Rather than feeling relieved that the case was at an end, tension surged through him. Notwithstanding Edmund Barnes remained to be questioned, it was hard to focus knowing Sophie blamed him for everything. He opened a bottle of red wine, recalling the look of resignation he’d seen on her face. Drinking the copper-tasting liquid, he concluded she was unlikely ever to forgive him. Every time he questioned what that would really mean, he took another sip of wine, in his panic his mind returning over and over to the same question. Would Jane still be part of his life?
Tillman had driven them back from Luton and he’d said an uneasy goodbye to Sarah. She was only a phone call and a thirty-minute taxi drive away, but even now he thought seeing her would be a betrayal. Not only to Sophie and Jane, but to Sarah herself. He would be using her and she deserved better. Instead, he finished off the bottle of red, his hi-fi playing Uncle Tupelo songs on a loop as he fell asleep.
* * *
It was becoming a habit, one he had to start controlling. He awoke on the sofa, his empty glass of wine on the floor, Jeff Tweedy and Jay Farrar still battling it out on his speakers.
An hour later and he was ready. Showered, breakfasted and changed into a fresh suit, he called Matilda to confirm what time they were questioning Edmund Barnes before walking to the train station, a body brimming with nervous tension.
Tillman summoned him into his office when he arrived, Matilda already waiting there for him. ‘Heads-up, I’ve had Tanner on the phone this morning. He’s still pissed you’re not suspended. He’s not giving up on this, I’m afraid. You’re going to have to meet with AC-10 at some point. You remember what happened, don’t you?’ Tillman handed him a piece of paper, backdated and signed, stating that while suspended Tillman had asked him to work undercover. Lambert signed it, unsure it would do any good. If he was suspended, he was suspended. He’d killed someone while off duty. He thanked Tillman and pocketed the letter, putting his concerns to one side for the time being.
‘You and Matilda will interview Barnes junior. He will know what happened to his sister and I think your presence, Michael, will push his buttons and that is what we want.’
‘What can we offer him?’ asked Lambert. The boy was facing life without parole and it was hard to negotiate with people in such a position.
‘The same as we mentioned before. I have a list of privileges he can receive in prison, and if he comes up with enough answers we’ll let him share a cell with his father.’
Although desperate for answers, the last offer was a step too far for Lambert. Neither father nor son deserved such a privilege, though spending the rest of their lives locked away together might not be the privilege the teenage boy thought.
‘One point to consider,’ said Tillman. ‘Edmund asked for a duty solicitor.’
‘A solicitor by the name of Benjamin Dale tried to speak to him but Edmund refused,’ added Matilda.
‘Dale was Jonathan Barnes’ solicitor,’ said Lambert.
‘Yes, and Peter Saunders’,’ said Tillman.
‘You’re thinking Dale could be the Manor’s consigliere?’ asked Lambert.
‘He represented four of the eight members of the Manor we convicted, so it’s more than a possibility.’
That Edmund had rejected the man’s representation was promising. Was Edmund about to turn his back on the Manor in return for a better deal? ‘Let’s find out why,’ said Lambert, leading Matilda out of the room.
They questioned Edmund Barnes in Woolwich where he was remanded. He was waiting in an interview room, cuffed, sitting next to his solicitor. He looked much younger than at Waverley Manor. He’d lost weight in the last few days, his face deathly pale and gaunt.
Lambert started the tape and made the introductions. The first words Edmund said were, ‘You killed my sister.’
Lambert met the boy’s eyes, making Edmund uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid Louise was killed during the course of our investigation, Edmund, you’re correct. I can’t comment on the actual events but I can assure you we had no option.’
‘You had no option?’ said Edmund, staring at the ground.
‘Let’s change the subject, shall we, Edmund? You have been charged with the murders of Alistair Beckinsale, Lance Jenkins, Inspector Duggan and Peter Saunders. I’m sure you’ve spoken to your solicitor about the charges and the evidence we have to build a successful case.’
Edmund glanced at his solicitor who nodded. Lambert hadn’t encountered Kim Morgan before. She was young, and would never have handled anything as high profile as this before, which was all in his favour. He pushed over the list of privileges drawn up by Tillman.
Edmund studied it, his eyes focused on the end of the list, the part offering him the chance to stay with his father.
‘This is an exceptional offer, Edmund. One I personally have never seen before. But you need to tell us everything and I mean not just about the murders, do you understand?’
‘OK.’
‘Let’s start with Mr Beckinsale. You electrocuted Mr Beckinsale in his bath, is this correct?’
Edmund looked at his solicitor and began to speak.
He was quick to talk, confessing to the murders of Beckinsale, Jenkins, Duggan and Saunders. Edmund’s fingerprints had been found at the scene of each, and DNA analysis would shortly match with the DNA swabs they had taken from the teenage boy.
‘Why Beckinsale and Jenkins?’ asked Matilda.
When he’d been asked the same question in Waverley Manor he’d claimed the men were known to ‘them’, not elaborating on what he meant.
‘I knew of them,’ he said.
‘How?’ asked Lambert.
‘They were on my dad’s files.’
‘What files?’
‘Dad gave me a flash drive before he went to prison.’
‘Where is this data, Edmund?’ said Lambert.
‘I’ve destroyed it,’ said Edmund, a hint of defiance in his eyes.
‘If you’re lying to us, all deals are off. We’re searching everywhere. Your student house, your mother’s farmhouse, the Saunders’ residence. If I find a flash drive you’re not telling me about there will be no privileges. Do you understand?’
Lambert raised his voice and the solicitor opened her mouth to object, only to change her mind.
‘It’s been destro
yed.’
‘What exactly was on this list?’ asked Matilda.
‘It was a list of people known to us.’
‘Stop saying that, Edmund. By “us” you mean the Manor?’ said Lambert.
Edmund shrugged.
‘What do you mean by “known” exactly?’
Edmund whispered something to his solicitor, who appeared shell-shocked by the whole situation. ‘I’m not admitting to being part of the Manor,’ said Edmund.
‘OK, I understand. Why not you use the pronoun “we” instead of the Manor? Then maybe I can understand what the hell you’re talking about?’
‘Yes. We knew of their existence because they’d visited…’ Edmund’s face froze as he struggled for the words. ‘Our…sites in the past.’
Lambert closed his eyes, his hand reaching for his forehead, the taste of last night’s red wine rising up his throat. ‘By sites you mean places like Waverley Manor?’
‘Possibly,’ said Edmund.
Alistair Beckinsale was fifty-four when he died, Lance seventeen. So many lost years. ‘But why kill them now?’
‘To get your attention.’
‘My personal attention?’ said Lambert.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you put my father in jail.’
‘He did that himself, Edmund, didn’t he? He was guilty of horrendous things, Edmund.’
‘You may think so.’
Lambert wanted to get to his feet, grab the boy and scream at him, but managed to control himself.
‘And Louise? What was her role in this?’
‘She helped. She wanted to get involved earlier but I wouldn’t let her.’
‘But she did that to Anna Saunders?’
‘So I believe,’ said Edmund, seemingly proud of his sister’s actions.
‘OK, let’s get back to Alistair and Lance. There must be more to it than that? You got my attention by leaving my name at the scene, getting my name in the press. Why kill those two men, Edmund? Why in that manner?’
Dead Time Page 25