by Matt Brolly
‘All right?’ said the youth, in a thick West Country drawl.
Lambert lowered his head a touch. The boy hesitated and let him pass. Three highrise buildings, grey and featureless, were the centrepiece of the estate. Light shone out from the buildings, the occasional blank face looking down on him.
He moved through the complex, the stench of rubbish bins billowing out from building one. Bin bags were piled high next to the entry for the stairwell. From one of the lower levels came the powerful thump of some form of dance music. To Lambert’s ears the bass was out of sync. The noise vibrated, shaking the windows. As he walked into the courtyard area, the stench of the dustbins was replaced by the aroma of something more exotic. Two men followed him into the poorly lit area.
They were both over six foot tall. The shorter of the two was black, dressed in dirty jeans and a navy blue hoody. The taller man was Mediterranean, possible Italian. He had thick broad shoulders and a fake diamond stud in his ear.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ said the black man.
Lambert stared them down. He tried not to move his head as he calculated the different exit points. He glanced up to see if anyone was watching from the towers. His chosen exit was at two o’clock on the north-east corner. It ran between building one and two. A lane led back onto the street where he could disappear amongst the shadows.
‘I said, what the fuck do you want?’ repeated the man.
Lambert’s attention was focused on the second man who was silent. Up close, he towered above him at least six foot four.
The black man pulled down his hood revealing a large dome of a skull and moved towards Lambert, his movements large and exaggerated. Lambert knew the display all too well.
‘Are you fucking deaf?’ said the man, swiping his right arm up in a short, sharp, diagonal movement.
The other man stood calculating Lambert, sizing him up. Finally he moved over and joined his companion.
‘Are you five-O?’ he said.
Lambert smirked as he tried to control the slight tremble in his limbs from the adrenalin. ‘They still use that term?’ he replied.
‘Fuck me,’ said the black man, who was moving from foot to foot as if the ground beneath him was alight.
Neither man had a Bristolian accent. Their aggressiveness sounded forced but he couldn’t dismiss their potential threat. He could tell by the position of their hands that both carried weapons. ‘Why are you following me?’ he asked.
The three of them stood in silence before the Mediterranean attacked. ‘Fuck this,’ he said, aiming a loose punch at Lambert’s head.
Lambert swerved and counteracted the move with a sharp elbow to the man’s kidneys. The man fell to his knees. Lambert should have finished the man off with a blow to the head and possibly the back of the neck. But he left him there to recover as the second man ran towards him. The second man had a short flick-knife in his right hand which he lunged at Lambert. Lambert had practised defending such a move thousands of times. He grasped the man’s wrist and used his aggressive force against him. The snap of the bone echoed around the courtyard. Lambert kicked the man’s kneecap and a second cracking noise rang out in the courtyard, sending the man into a heap before him, next to his groaning friend.
‘Who sent you?’ said Lambert.
‘Fuck you,’ said the Mediterranean man.
Lambert was about to drag the men to their feet when flashing blue lights filled the shadows of the courtyard. Lambert waited for a few seconds, then sped through his chosen exit.
He reached the main road in ten minutes and was back at his hotel room by one-thirty.
Chapter 11
Lambert showered and disinfected the minor grazes on his hands. He hadn’t looked back once the police arrived. He’d broken the leg of one of his attackers. The man would not have escaped the police. Lambert would have to contend with the possibility that the man would be able to identify him if shown his picture.
He paced the room, replaying the scene in his head until it stopped making sense. It was clear it had been a specific attack, and that he was the intended target, but everything about it had been poorly orchestrated. If the police hadn’t arrived then he would have found out why he was being singled out. His only thought at this stage was that he was being warned off the Souljacker case and the two injured men would have easily given up whoever had sent them. If it was a warning then it had backfired. He was more motivated than ever. He wished it was the morning already so he could start working, but he had to try and get some sleep.
He lay in bed and switched off the lights but his body still hummed with adrenalin. Although he could survive on three to four hours a night, too little sleep was dangerous for him especially when not in a controlled environment.
His thoughts returned to the attack. Whoever the assailants were, their work was amateurish. It would have made more sense for them to surprise him, not follow him and announce their presence before attacking. Again, it suggested that they had meant simply to leave him a message and that it had got out of hand, due to their incompetence.
But what was the message and who wanted to send it?
He tried to divert his attention from the scene, his mind replaying it over and over again, the crunch of the man’s leg echoing around his head as if the scene was being replayed in his hotel room. His mind drifted, his thoughts turning to Chloe. She’d been nine at the time of the accident. Mature for her age, a child full of curiosity and wonder. A different scene started to play in his head and he heard himself scream before he’d realised he must have briefly slipped into sleep. He sat up and wiped the drool from the side of his mouth, wishing as he did every morning that he could close his eyes and swap places with his daughter.
He switched on the lamp by the side of his bed. Returning to his laptop, he searched through the old case files on the Souljacker murders, reluctantly going over the details of Billy Nolan’s murder once more. His own name appeared more than once, as witness, and potential suspect. He started a sub-routine, crosschecking details from the older cases, and the Haydon case.
He scanned through case notes and autopsy reports going back to Clive Hale. The horrific crime scene photographs followed the same pattern. Each of the victim’s eyes removed, and the same Latin phrase carved into their skin. On each occasion, the victim had lived through the ordeal of the blinding and carving, the fatal cut of the artery taking place afterwards. Although each victim had a form of anaesthetic in their blood stream, the pathologist could never be sure if the victims had been conscious or not during their attacks.
Lambert arranged the file reports onto a slide show on his laptop. As random images from the murders played out on the screen, Lambert took a bottle of sparkling water from the minibar and paced the room. He considered the murder of Terrence Haydon once more. He made a mental note of potential suspects, and lines of investigations. It was a simple enough job. Terrence’s family and friends, his work colleagues, the people he knew from his local church. Nothing the police were not already investigating.
Lambert understood that he was a potential suspect. May had yet to ask him for an alibi for the date of Haydon’s murders. He’d enjoyed having dinner with her but knew that, at least in part, she was investigating him.
He sat on his bed and scanned the random pieces of information. At times, it was like looking at an old photo album. Photos of Billy Nolan, Klatzky, and his other friends from his time at University filtered into view, as did an unnerving version of his youthful self.
A photo from the Haydon crime scene cut short his reminiscing. He stopped the slide show and studied the ruptured skin on Haydon’s corpse.
In oculis animus habitat. The soul dwells in the eyes.
One of the early theories proposed that the Souljacker was under the illusion he was stealing his victim’s soul, as well as their life. It was not a theory which had helped the lead investigator of the original murders, DI Hastings. Lambert had read the case reports enough times to know
that Hastings’ investigation had failed at every step. He knew from his many conversations with the man since how much this had professionally hurt him. Hastings considered it his one true failure. His investigations failed to uncover any links between the victims, other than their age and sex. No identifiable DNA had ever been found at the scenes. Hastings eventually concluded that the victims were random and Lambert had subsequently agreed with him. But with Terrence’s death, Lambert was no longer sure. It was too hard to believe that the connection between Billy and Terrence was coincidental.
The Latin inscription ripped through Haydon’s skin, the same exact style as the inscription which had adorned Billy Nolan’s body. Lambert retrieved the file Klatzky had given him at the coffee shop from his bag. The picture on the screen of Haydon’s corpse was an exact copy of one of the pictures in the file.
Lambert returned to the start of the document on his laptop. He clicked on Simon Klatzky’s name and a separate file opened up in a second window with a flattering picture of his friend, twenty years out of date. Next to it, in red capital letters were details of an existing arrest warrant for shoplifting. Klatzky had apparently helped himself to some wine from a supermarket in Plaistow, East London. He’d been caught by a security guard and had been duly charged. He’d failed to turn up to his agreed magistrate’s date, and as such, was technically on the run. Something he had failed to tell Lambert.
A combination of that night’s events, and Klatzky’s behaviour that day, proved too much for Lambert. He picked up his room card and went into the hall. It was four a.m. He knocked on Klatzky’s door but there was no answer so he went to the hotel’s reception. The desk was deserted. He rang an electric buzzer and waited for five minutes until one of the hotel’s staff, a tired-looking woman painted in cheap make-up, appeared.
‘I seem to have locked myself out of my room,’ said Lambert. The woman smiled, the gesture perfunctory. After checking Lambert’s details, she gave him a pass card to Klatzky’s room.
Lambert returned to their floor and knocked again on Klatzky’s door, as loud as he felt able considering the time of the morning. When there was no answer, he placed the card into the chrome slot in the door. Klatzky’s lies helped assuage his guilt for invading his friend’s privacy.
It was not a pretty sight. Klatzky lay naked on the bed, next to the black-haired student. Both of them were comatose, not even stirring as Lambert crossed the room.
‘Simon, it’s Michael,’ he whispered into Klatzky’s ear.
Klatzky didn’t stir. The room stank of alcohol, cigarettes and something else Lambert didn’t want to consider at that moment. He lifted Klatzky’s head from the pillow. A line of dried vomit trickled from the right-hand corner of his mouth, down his chin and onto the pimpled flesh of his body.
‘Wake up, Simon,’ said Lambert, slapping the man gently on his cheeks. He didn’t want to wake the sleeping student, fearing that she would scream on seeing him there. ‘Simon, wake up,’ he said, through gritted teeth.
No response.
He considered pulling Klatzky from the bed and kicking him into wakefulness but knew it would be pointless. Instead he scribbled a note on the hotel stationery, instructing Klatzky to contact him as soon as he woke.
Back in his room he chided himself for allowing Klatzky to accompany him on the journey to Bristol. On the laptop, he noticed an entry from one of May’s junior officers he’d not spotted before. A robbery had occurred at a local church three weeks before the murder. Part of the missing inventory included a package of incense. May had not shared this information with him. The church was located in Weston-super-Mare, the same town where Haydon’s father lived, the same place May had instructed him not to visit.
Giving up on sleep, he showered again and changed. Downstairs, he arranged for a hire car to be delivered to the hotel. He ordered a light breakfast of scrambled eggs and wholemeal toast and ate alone in the hotel’s restaurant. He told the tired-looking receptionist that Klatzky would be checking out that day and gave her the pass key to Klatzky’s room. ‘You may need a few reminder calls to get my friend out of bed,’ he told her.
The hire car arrived at six-thirty a.m. Five minutes into the journey his phone rang.
‘Inspector May,’ he said, turning on the phone’s hands-free system. ‘You have incredible timing. You’re not watching me, are you?’
Chapter 12
Lance didn’t know the injured man’s name and didn’t want to know. He just wanted him to be quiet. The man lay in the back of the van, his friend motionless next to him. They were two strangers Lance had first met the day before, hired to do one job which they had royally fucked up earlier that night, a job Lance had been supervising.
The roads surrounding Frenchay hospital were quiet in the early morning, and they managed to make quick time away from the place. The injured man howled in pain. On removing him from the hospital, they’d had to rip out the morphine drip which had been pumping painkiller into his system at intermittent intervals. The injured man’s black skin had turned a shade of blue. He writhed in convulsions as if Lambert had shattered his leg that very second. He’d been due for an operation that morning. The consultant had mentioned pins, and metal plates. Lance kept stealing glances at the damaged limb in his rear-view mirror. Alien in size and colour, the leg was bent at an odd inverted angle. No wonder the guy was in agony.
‘Can you shut him up?’ demanded Lance.
‘What do you want me to do? Put a pillow over his head?’
Lance could barely hear the second man over the din of the howling. The comment may have been sarcastic, but everything considered it would probably be the best thing for him.
Five minutes from their destination, a safe house in Bedminster, Lance called the number he’d been given. He told the person who answered, a third man whose name he didn’t know, their ETA. ‘You better have something ready for him, or the noise is going to attract attention.’
Lance manoeuvred the van down a side street, and up the gravel drive of what appeared to be a deserted house. The garage doors had been left open and he parked inside. The doors slid shut as he switched off the engine, flooding the interior in darkness. The injured man began screaming again.
A side door opened, and two men entered the garage. Lance left the van. Together they opened the back door and, with the help of Lance’s colleague, hoisted the injured man out of the van. The screams reverberated around the hollow confines of the garage.
‘Don’t worry, mate, we’ve something for you inside. Hold on for a couple more minutes,’ said one of the men.
Lance left the key in the ignition and followed the men into the interior of the house. They carried the injured man into a large open space, the partitions to all the downstairs rooms having been knocked out to create the area. They placed the body on the uncarpeted floor. One of the men produced a syringe from a cloth bag, and filled it with a clear liquid. ‘This will see you good,’ he said, spearing the injured man’s upper thigh.
The man stooped struggling. For a second Lance thought he was dead. Then he saw his chest move, taking in shallow breaths.
Four conscious men, one unconscious. No one knew anyone’s name. It was the way Campbell wanted it. The less you knew, the less you could talk.
‘You’re the driver,’ said the man Lance had spoken to on the phone.
Lance nodded.
‘New instructions. Leave the van here.’ He gave Lance a set of keys, and a piece of paper with an address on it. ‘It’s on the main road. You can go through the front door.’
Lance left the building alone.
Chapter 13
Although the remark had been flippant, it was conceivable that one of May’s colleagues had monitored him leaving the hotel and relayed the information to their superior.
‘How can you ask me that, Michael, after last night?’ replied May, a mischievous lilt to her voice. ‘Actually, I was wondering if you could pop into the office when you are free. We have som
eone here you might wish to speak to.’ She refused to divulge any more details.
Lambert pulled over and checked his rear-view mirror. It didn’t seem as if anyone was following him. Deciding to postpone his visit to Haydon’s father until later, he drove the short distance to Sarah May’s police station. He parked the car and walked into the station. They had moved the incident room from the newer police headquarters in Portishead, to the central station on Bridewell Street.
‘Michael Lambert to see DI May,’ he said, to the duty sergeant.
The duty sergeant studied him as if verifying he was actually there. ‘You’re Michael Lambert?’ he said, as if something about his appearance made this unlikely.
‘I’m here at her request,’ he said, his tone dropping an octave as he locked onto the sergeant’s gaze.
The sergeant scratched a line of hair which fell from his chin. ‘Inspector May’s expecting you?’ he asked, as if Lambert had yet to speak.
Lambert pinched his nose, blinked his eyes. ‘Do you need to see some identification, Sergeant? Pick up the phone and speak to her. She called me ten minutes ago.’ Up close, he could smell the fetid breath of the man who had probably been at the desk all night. He could excuse the coldness in the man’s tone, it was his station and Lambert was an outsider, but drew a line at disrespect.
The sergeant scratched his chin again, his eyes not leaving Lambert’s, as if he was too tired to turn his face away. Lambert was about to reach over and strike the man into action when a door to Lambert’s left buzzed open. ‘Second floor.’
May stood at the top of the stairs, waiting. ‘Michael, how are you?’ she asked, immaculate in a sharp grey suit.
‘So what’s the great mystery?’ he asked, though he had a good idea why she’d asked to see him.
‘Come on through.’
The open-plan office was alive with sleep-starved officers already busy on their phones, punching keys on their computers. ‘What’s going on in here?’