by Lisa Hartley
‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘Again, Mr Lambert, you tell me.’
‘I don’t know her.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’ve just said so, haven’t I?’ The smooth manner had gone; Lambert was on the defensive.
‘How about this one?’ Catherine slid another image over the table top. Lambert looked at it then turned his head away, his horror appearing to be genuine.
‘Jesus Christ.’
Sophie Townsend also averted her eyes.
‘Unacceptable, Sergeant.’ Her voice was tight.
Catherine ignored her. ‘Both photographs are of Keeley Pearce, Mr Lambert,’ she said. ‘Do you remember her now?’
‘No.’ He wouldn’t look at the photograph.
‘She worked at Worthy and Son for a couple of weeks.’
‘So what?’ Lambert ran a hand across his lips.
‘Did you offer her drugs too?’
‘I don’t even know who she is.’
‘Did you offer her drugs?’ Catherine wasn’t going to let it go.
‘No, I fucking didn’t!’
‘Did you do this to her face?’
‘No! What do you think I am?’ It was a plea, but Catherine ignored it.
‘As you can see, Keeley Pearce is dead. She died of a drug overdose. What do you say to that, Mr Lambert?’
Townsend butted in. ‘Sergeant Bishop, my client has already told you he doesn’t know who this woman is.’
‘I’ve never seen her before,’ Lambert bleated.
‘And once she was dead, someone destroyed her face with a shovel. Was that you, Alex? Did you do that?’
‘Sergeant, I really must …’ Townsend tried again.
‘Have another look at the picture, Alex. Did you smash Keeley’s face in? Were you angry with her? Tell us what happened.’
Lambert shoved the photos away with a sweep of his hand and they fluttered to the floor, Keeley’s smiling face covered by the terrible image of her battered one. Lambert rubbed his hands over his eyes, then took a deep breath.
‘I swear to you, I didn’t do that. I remember her face now, yes, I admit it. I don’t think I even spoke to her though. I promise you, I swear on my life. I couldn’t do that to anyone.’ He nodded towards where the pictures lay without actually looking at them. Catherine exchanged a glance with Dave, who said: ‘So did you get someone else to do it?’
Lambert turned to him. ‘Someone else?’
‘Yeah. You don’t seem the sort of bloke to get your hands dirty.’ Dave gave a guileless smile. Lambert laced his hands on the scratched table top with a sigh. ‘I haven’t battered anyone and I haven’t told anyone else to do it either. This is stupid.’
‘You seem quite wealthy, Mr Lambert,’ Catherine said. ‘Nice car, designer clothes?’
‘My client’s financial circumstances are none of your business, Sergeant,’ Townsend sniffed.
‘That depends on where the money came from, doesn’t it?’
‘I earn a decent salary, plus bonuses,’ Lambert sneered, rallying a little. ‘Four or five times more than you do.’
Catherine laughed. ‘Good for you.’
‘So your only source of income is your wages from Worthy and Son?’ Dave probed.
‘My salary, Constable. I don’t earn wages. I also own a couple of properties which bring in rental income. My accountant deals with all the details.’
‘I thought you were an accountant?’ Catherine shot back.
‘I am.’ Lambert raised his chin.
‘Properly qualified?’
‘Chartered,’ he smirked. ‘Good enough?’
‘Yet someone else deals with your rental properties?’
‘I’ve a full time job with Worthy and Son, I don’t have time to deal with tenants as well.’
‘So you just take the money?’
Lambert gave a scornful laugh.
‘The market’s not what it used to be, Sergeant, believe me.’
‘I’ll have to take your word for it. Do you have other business interests?’
‘Not really. I own two shops in town and three small houses, all of which are rented out. I’m trying to sell the shops, as a matter of fact, but it’s not proving easy.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re empty half the time and no one wants them. Look around you - Northolme isn’t exactly a shopper’s paradise.’
‘Some businesses are thriving though,’ Dave said.
‘Such as? Fast-food places and cheap clothes shops. Not my idea of business.’ Lambert shook his head.
‘Drugs are always popular.’ Catherine stared at him.
‘Sergeant, Mr Lambert has told you he isn’t involved with drugs and never has been. Can we move on?’ Townsend was firm.
‘Of course. In fact, let’s take a break.’ Catherine stood up and smiled at them. ‘We’ll speak to you again soon, Mr Lambert.’
41
‘Would you like a biscuit, Inspector?’ Margaret Saddler pulled a packet of chocolate chip cookies from her desk drawer and offered them to Knight.
‘Thank you.’ He bit into one, then took a mouthful of tea, struggling to fit his finger through the tiny handle of the bone china cup. Margaret replaced the packet, sat down and smoothed her skirt.
‘Of course I keep them for Mr Worthy, but he’ll never know if we have a couple.’ She smiled. ‘Now then. I hear that Alex Lambert’s been taken in for questioning?’
‘Well, he went voluntarily.’
Margaret made a sound that was somewhere between a snort of derision and a laugh.
‘We all know what that means. He went before you dragged him.’
Knight laughed. ‘We don’t tend to drag people around, Mrs Saddler.’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘What do you think of Mr Lambert?’
‘Alex?’ She sighed. ‘Cocky. Full of himself. Charming though, and he’s always been polite and courteous to me. I speak as I find, you understand.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Knight raised his cup.
‘I’m not sure he’s quite the businessman he thinks he is though. Not up to his father’s standard, at any rate.’
‘The elder Mr Lambert was John Worthy’s business partner?’
‘Well, in a way. They were best friends, had been for years. They were both widowed at a young age too. Mr Worthy remarried, but Victor never did. Mr Worthy was distraught when Victor died. Heart disease, you know. So sad. We lost my brother to a heart attack a few months ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She rallied.
‘Well, you’re not here to talk about me.’
‘How did Alex Lambert take his father’s death?’
‘I don’t judge, you understand, but … well, Alex was sitting behind his father’s desk within three weeks. He spent a fortune redecorating it too. I’m still not sure what he does here.’
Knight smiled.
‘What about the other members of staff? Do they like Alex?’
She lifted her shoulders. ‘I’m not sure. He’s charming, as I say, but he does tend to get people’s backs up. He’s … well, crass, I suppose.’
‘Crass?’
‘Always going on about his new car when other people are struggling to pay their bus fare, strutting in wearing new clothes every week when most of us have one or two decent outfits for work. Thoughtless.’
‘I see. He’s not popular?’
She eyed him.
‘Now, Inspector, I’m not sure what you want me to say. People mutter about him, of course they do. He’s rich, successful and good-looking. Jealousy makes people spiteful. Then again, there have been rumours …’
‘Rumours? About what?’
‘Someone said he’d had an affair with a young girl who worked here. She’s gone now.’
‘Can you remember her name?’ Knight asked.
‘Jemima. I can’t recall the surname, but I can check. She was just a kid, all of sixteen. Ba
rely legal, you know.’ Her face screwed up in disgust. ‘Alex is thirty-eight.’ She got up, went across to a filing cabinet and opened a drawer. ‘Here we are. Jemima Morley. I’ve got her address too?’
‘Please,’ Knight replied, scribbling the name down. She handed him a form with all of Jemima Morley’s personal details on it.
‘Mr Worthy was furious when he found out. He looks on Alex as a son but he won’t stand for that sort of thing.’
‘How is John Worthy as a boss?’ Knight asked. He had a feeling he knew what the response would be.
‘Well, I’ve worked here for almost thirty years now and I’ve never had a cross word from him.’ Margaret smiled, finishing her tea and setting the cup and saucer on her desk.
‘That can’t be bad. I have cross words from my boss every day,’ grinned Knight.
‘He has been a little quiet these past few months,’ Margaret mused. ‘I think he’s worried about retiring and what will become of the place if Alex takes over the reins.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
‘I dread to think. Maybe he’ll turn it into a wine bar,’ she laughed. ‘I have heard …’ She glanced around. ‘Now, this won’t go any further, will it?
Knight replaced his cup on the saucer. ‘I can’t promise to keep secrets, Mrs Saddler. If it’s pertinent to the investigation, I’ll need to disclose it.’
She nodded. ‘Of course, I understand. It’s just that the business is struggling. The website design, the printing - none of it is bringing enough money in. I think Mr Worthy is concerned.’
Knight absorbed this.
‘And Alex Lambert is your accountant?’
‘He has an assistant too, but yes.’
‘Could I speak to his assistant then, please?’
In a small room just down the corridor from Alex Lambert’s office, Luke Christie sat at a crowded desk, hemmed in by filing cabinets and bookcases. As Knight approached the open door, he looked up and smiled.
‘Can I help you?’
Knight shuffled forward.
‘You’re Alex Lambert’s assistant?’
‘I am, yes.’ Christie made no attempt to hide his curiosity as Knight held out his warrant card. ‘You’re a police officer?’ He pushed back his chair, concern creasing his face. ‘Has there been an accident? My parents . . ?’
‘No, no,’ Knight reassured him. ‘I’m here to ask you about Mr Lambert.’
The young man sank back into his chair, relieved.
‘Alex? Is there a problem?’
‘Would you be surprised if there was?’
Christie blushed.
‘I’m not sure what you mean. I’m sorry, there’s not a spare chair. You’re welcome to have mine?’
‘It’s fine, thank you. This shouldn’t take long.’ Knight moved into the centre of the room and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘Plenty of paperwork.’
‘Alex is always going on about having a paperless office, but we’re some way off that yet.’
‘What do you do here?’
‘I deal with accounts receivable and payable, invoices, financial reporting, entering data onto the computer system – all the tasks that don’t involve actual money,’ he smiled.
‘You don’t control the bank account?’
‘No, and I don’t open the bank statement. They still come in the post – paperless, you know.’ He rolled his eyes and Knight laughed.
‘What’s Mr Lambert like to work for?’
Christie hesitated.
‘He’s fine.’ Knight eyed him sceptically, and he reddened again. ‘A little impatient sometimes,’ he allowed. Knight waited. Christie glanced at the door, lowered his voice and said, ‘All right, he’s a nightmare. I’m looking for another job.’
Knight walked over, closed the door and turned back to Christie.
‘A nightmare in what way?’
The young man sighed. ‘He never does anything he says he’s going to. Payments are a good example. A supplier will chase an invoice, I’ll speak to him, promise payment as he’s said and then he doesn’t do it. We owe money all over the place.’
‘He won’t pay, or he can’t pay?’
‘I … I’d have to say both.’
‘How involved is Mr Worthy in the financial side of the business?’
‘I think I’ve seen him twice since I’ve worked here, which is over a year now.’
‘Not exactly hands-on in this department then?’
‘You could say that. He prefers the printing works, I think.’
‘Do you know when the last audit was done?’
‘No, sorry. I think we’re exempt because of our turnover.’
‘I see. So Mr Lambert has a free rein when it comes to company finances?’
‘More or less, I suppose. He produces reports for the board meetings, but …’
‘Thank you for your time.’ Knight turned away.
‘Sorry, but … is Alex in trouble?’
‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘Okay.’ Christie didn’t sound convinced.
Knight gave a brief smile and crossed the room. Back in the reception area, he called to Margaret Saddler, now tapping away at her computer again. ‘I’m leaving now. Thanks again.’ She smiled and waved a hand in farewell. Knight pushed open the door and then stopped. Frowning, he turned and strode back over to Margaret’s office.
‘Can I help you, Inspector?’
‘I just wanted to have another look at this photo.’
Following his gaze, she shrugged. ‘Oh, that’s a few years old now.’
Knight took his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘You don’t mind if I take a picture of it?’
‘Why should I mind? It’s up there for everyone to see,’ she replied, her eyes not leaving her computer screen.
‘Sarge, look at this,’ Anna Varcoe said as she hurried towards Catherine’s desk with a few sheets of paper in her hand. Catherine put down the report she was reading.
‘What is it?’
‘Keeley Pearce’s phone records. The last call she made was three days before we found her body. Guess who to?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Alex Lambert.’
‘You’re kidding.’
Catherine took the sheet Anna was holding out to her.
‘Highlighted in blue. It’s the only call she made to him that I can see though. They spoke for almost two minutes.’
‘Bloody hell. Good work, Anna. Are any of the other numbers Keeley called any use to us?’
Anna shook her head.
‘Not that I can see. She didn’t seem to phone people too often, she just sent texts like most people do. She did ring her mum and Simmo a few times, but that’s about all.’
‘Where was she when the last call was made?’ Catherine squinted at the data.
‘That’s the interesting thing. She was in the same area as Lauren Cook when her phone was switched off.’
‘So they might have been picked up in the same street?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘We need the CCTV footage then.’
‘I’ve put the request in.’
‘We’ve had Lambert in custody for three hours already.’
‘Do you think it’s him?’
‘He’s got some explaining to do, that’s for sure. The lifestyle fits, but then as he says, he’s on decent money from his job at Worthy’s plus bonuses and his rental income, as well as any money he inherited. Have we heard from DI Knight?’
‘No, Sarge.’ Anna hesitated. ‘I hope Rob’s not involved.’
‘Don’t worry about Rob. I don’t think he has anything to do with this, but if he has he doesn’t deserve your concern.’
‘Thanks, Sarge.’ Anna met her eyes. ‘It’s not that I feel anything for him, it’s just …’
‘I know. He’s an old friend.’
Anna nodded, grateful for her sergeant’s understanding and Catherine took out her phone.
Back in t
he car, Knight had another look at the photograph he’d just taken, emailed it to Catherine and DCI Kendrick and then tried her mobile.
‘Are you still at Worthy and Son?’ she demanded, not bothering with a greeting.
‘Just about to head back. Have you seen my email?’
‘Not yet. Let me have a look.’ There was a silence and then she said, ‘Oh.’
42
Lauren lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest. She pulled the plastic sheeting around her, as tight as it would go. It might as well have been tissue paper for all the warmth it was providing. The concrete floor was like ice, leeching the warmth and strength from her limbs. She shivered, her head empty of thoughts other than those linked to her pain and discomfort. Clamping her teeth together, she managed a sketch of a smile. Lying in the foetal position. What a cliché. She stretched out her legs, then pushed herself onto her hands and knees. She managed to get to her feet and lurched over to where the plastic bottle lay on the floor by the door. After unscrewing the cap laboriously, she tipped back her head and held the bottle over her open mouth, willing just another drop to emerge.
Nothing.
A low moan crept from her as the bottle fell to the floor, bounced, rolled and then lay still. She slunk back to her plastic nest. The puddle in the corner had long since disappeared and she hadn’t needed to go again. Not a good sign.
Curling up again on the floor, she closed her eyes. Where was Mark? Why wasn’t he looking for her? Where were the police?
A sob choked her throat but her hand was cold and dry as she wiped her eyes. No tears. What did that mean?
She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried, before all this had begun. When Nan had died? When Katie Thomson pushed her over in the park? No. No. That was years ago. Pigtails and plaits. Patent leather shoes and mud pies. Katie Thomson was coming around to play. Her mum was having a baby soon and Katie hoped for a brother, because she already had a sister. Lauren had a brother. His name was Mark.
Lauren lifted her chin, blinking hard. No. Mark was her husband. She didn’t have a brother, she was an only child. What was happening? Her vision blurred, the plastic sheeting rising from the floor to meet her.
Her heart seemed to thud against her chest, the beat rattling the pain in her head around like a pinball.
‘Where are you Mark?’ she screamed, startling herself. ‘Where are you, you selfish bastard? Don’t leave me here. I’ll die, you know. I’ll die.’ She raised her hands and tucked them under her armpits, whimpering. ‘Mum. Mark. Mummy. I can’t see you. I can’t see you now.’