by Matt Brolly
‘He’s gay,’ said the boy, as if Lambert needed clarification.
Haydon laughed this time. ‘I think Mr Lambert’s understands that, Thomas, but thank you anyway.’
The boy’s acne-pitted skin glowed red with embarrassment. Haydon placed his hand on the boy’s arm. ‘I would have lived with the lie, as well, for Terrence’s sake, but she found out. I could have been a mass murderer and been treated with more compassion. As far as she was concerned, I was evil incarnate.’
‘And she made Terrence feel the same way?’ asked Lambert.
The young man held Haydon’s hand as he began to cry. Lambert wished he hadn’t been there under false pretences but knew what was being said could be relevant.
‘There was one more thing,’ said Haydon, dragging the back of his nicotine-stained hand across his eyes.
‘Don’t,’ urged the boy.
Lambert waited. The teenager, Thomas, was almost as agitated as Haydon. The two of them were an odd pair, sitting together on the sofa, drinking their morning cider, at least forty years between them.
‘You don’t have to tell him anything,’ urged Thomas.
Haydon drained his glass, the younger man dutifully refilling it.
‘When Terrence was seven, and Sandra had heard the truth about me, she wanted me to leave the house. At first I refused to go. It was not for my sake. We were both young and had no experience but even then I knew she was a horrible mother. She was bringing Terrence up in the way of her church and there was nothing I could do about it. When I refused to leave, she threatened me.’
‘What with?’
‘She said that she would tell the authorities I had…’ He moved his head from side to side, the words seemingly hard to say. ‘She said she would tell the authorities that I touched Terrence.’ The last words came out as a tortured squeak.
Haydon’s arm trembled, the tattoo of the blue rose dancing on his skin. Thomas leant over and placed his hand on the man’s wrist. ‘That’s enough,’ he urged.
‘It was a simple ultimatum, Mr Lambert. She had the backing of her church. She made me doubt myself, and to my eternal shame, I fell for it.’
‘You agreed to leave?’
‘Not only to leave, but never to see them again. You don’t understand, I was a labourer at the time. It was a very small community. Only her and that damn church knew about me. That alone would have been an end to me. With the evil accusations she was suggesting, I would have feared for my life. And ultimately, although it was a very selfish act, I thought it would be better for Terrence.’
‘You see, there is no depth to that woman’s darkness,’ said Thomas, patting Haydon’s arm.
‘Can I use your bathroom?’ asked Lambert.
The younger man nodded not looking in Lambert’s direction.
The rest of the house was in a state of decay. Strips of yellowing wallpaper fell from the walls. The carpets were threadbare, decorated with numerous stains. Lambert crept upstairs and peered into the rooms. The upper floor was low-ceilinged. It contained two bedrooms, each with a double bed, and a small unkempt bathroom. Random items of junk cluttered the place. The second bedroom looked as if it belonged to the teenage boy. A couple of posters hung on the drab walls, and a small weights bench sat in one corner. On the sideboard Lambert riffled through a number of old tabloid newspapers, and came across a plastic wallet. He found a driver’s licence. The boy’s name was Thomas Langtree. According to the licence he was twenty-one years of age. Lambert replaced a couple of bank cards in the wallet and a crumpled five pound note. Nothing else in the room suggested Thomas was a permanent fixture. Lambert placed the wallet back where he’d found it.
He turned to leave but the figure of Thomas Langtree covered the exit.
‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ asked Langtree, rigid with tension.
‘I got lost.’
‘You got lost? There are only three rooms up here.’
Lambert held out his hands in mock surrender. ‘What’s the deal here?’ he asked.
‘What’s it to you?’ replied Langtree, not moving from the doorway.
‘Curious, that’s all.’
‘It’s none of your business. We look after each other, that’s all.’
‘What about your parents?’
The question triggered a response. The boy’s lips trembled. He assessed Lambert, deciding what his chances would be in a confrontation. ‘I think you should leave,’ he slurred.
Lambert brushed past him as he left the room, the boy’s skin rank with body odour and alcohol. Lambert walked downstairs and returned to the living room, Langtree close behind.
‘Before I go, Mr Haydon. Could you tell me when you last saw Terrence?’
‘You’re not really his friend, are you?’ growled the older man. ‘What are you? Police?’
‘I haven’t lied to you, Mr Haydon. I did know your son at University. We weren’t exactly the closest of friends. He was an acquaintance and I want to find out what happened to him.’
The two-litre bottle of cider was nearly empty. The old man drank what was left in his glass. ‘Tell him, Thomas,’ he instructed.
‘Oh come on. He’s snooping.’
‘Just tell him.’
The boy hesitated. ‘I saw him on the night he went missing,’ he said, eventually.
‘Where?’ asked Lambert
‘I saw him going into a club in Bristol. I hadn’t seen him in there before. I didn’t realise it was his scene.’
‘Have you told the police this?’
‘The police don’t know Thomas lives here. I decided not to tell them,’ said Haydon. ‘Now I think I may have made a mistake.’
‘It was a gay club,’ said Thomas.
‘How well did you know Terrence?’ Lambert asked Langtree.
‘I didn’t know him to speak to, but Roger has photos. I recognised him from them. I’ve seen him out and about now and then.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘I didn’t go in once I saw him enter. I think he was on his own.’ Langtree gave Lambert the name and address of the club.
‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’ Lambert asked before leaving.
Haydon closed his eyes as if disgusted with himself. ‘I didn’t want his mother finding out.’
Chapter 15
Lambert was back in Bristol within thirty minutes. It was hard to completely accept Roger Haydon’s story. He checked through the HOLMES entry once more. Bradbury’s report didn’t mention Thomas Langtree, or Terrence entering the nightclub on the night of his disappearance. The anger he’d felt at Bradbury’s action towards him at the station intensified. His ineptness could have cost dearly.
Lambert parked the hire car. The club was situated off the centre beneath a footbridge. Lambert walked down a darkened lane and stood outside the club. A small gold-plated sign stated that the club opened at ten p.m. Thursday to Sunday. It was only midday and the front doors leading to the club were locked. He knew he should really inform May about his discovery but she could wait. He was disappointed with her for the crude line of questioning at the station that morning.
Lambert found a second door to the side of the building. He turned the handle, and was surprised when it opened. He walked past a shabby glass-fronted booth, and down a winding staircase which led to the cavernous space of the club. Whatever magic the place held when filled with people, music, and lights, was missing now. In the dimness all Lambert could see was a vacant space, and mirrored walls. He tried to picture Terrence Haydon in such a place but it was impossible to do in the quiet surroundings.
He called out, his voice echoing in the space. He moved across the dance floor, and opened the hatch at the end of one of the bars. A small archway led to a low-ceilinged hallway. Lambert rounded the corner and to his right saw a glass-panel door with the word ‘Office’ stencilled on it. He was about to turn the door handle when something hard was struck against the back of his head.
His body tensed. Thankf
ully, the blow was poorly aimed. Lambert staggered but managed to keep his feet. He saw the second blow arrive through the mirrored doorframe and managed to dodge the full force of the impact, his left shoulder taking the brunt. He grabbed the assailant’s arm, pushing his elbow into his body. A miniature silver baseball fell from the man’s hand. Lambert swung around and pushed the assailant against the office door, his right arm thrust under the man’s chin.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Lambert, through gritted teeth, a dull ache spreading across his head.
‘You’re hurting me,’ said the man, taking short, quick intakes of breath.
‘I’m hurting you?’ Lambert eased the pressure from the man’s neck and let him free. ‘What was that about?’ He rubbed the back of his head thankful not to see any blood on his hand.
The man adjusted his collar and patted down his clothes. ‘You’re asking me? You’re the one who broke in.’
‘I’m police,’ said Lambert.
The man squinted his eyes. ‘Can I see some ID?’
‘I’m not that type of police.’
The man glanced down at the dropped baseball bat. ‘Bullshit. Get the fuck out of here,’ he said, with little conviction.
Lambert picked up the bat to stop it being a distraction. ‘Look, I only wanted to ask some questions and the door was open.’
The man backed away. ‘I was expecting a delivery. Not someone wandering through my club. We’ve had some break-ins before.’
‘Perhaps you should review your security procedures then. I’ll level with you. I’m ex-police. A friend of mine has been murdered. He was last seen here on the night he went missing.’
‘Oh come on,’ said the man.
‘Why would I make up such a story?’
‘Maybe I should wait for the real police to arrive.’
‘Maybe you should. Or maybe you could help me out,’ he said, glancing down at the baseball bat in his hand. ‘The man’s name was Terrence Haydon. You may have read about him in the newspapers.’
The man’s face paled. ‘What, that Souljacker murder?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘He was here on the night he disappeared?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why haven’t the real police come here then?’
‘They don’t know yet.’ Lambert told the man what Roger Haydon had told him.
‘I don’t know many of their names. I don’t know anyone called Langtree or Haydon.’ The man was still on edge, stealing nervous glances at the baseball bat.
‘Do you have any CCTV here?’ asked Lambert.
‘We’ve two cameras. I can access the details on my PC. Not the greatest system I’m afraid.’
‘Show me.’ Lambert followed the man into his office, close enough to persuade him not to risk anything stupid.
The man turned on his PC. ‘The first camera is outside the club. The other takes a sweeping view of inside. It’s a rudimentary system. We only have it for insurance purposes.’
The pictures were fuzzy. Lambert had seen better pictures on mobile phone cameras.
‘Could you download a copy of the files for that evening?’ asked Lambert.
‘I’m not giving you anything,’ said the man.
‘I’m not asking you to delete anything. Just download those two files.’ Lambert placed his left hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed it tight, his fingers reaching the man’s neck.
The man began to squirm. ‘Fine,’ he said, trying to shrug Lambert off. He took a data key from inside a desk drawer. ‘When are you going to tell the police?’ asked the man once he’d downloaded the files.
‘Once I’ve looked through these. It will give you a chance to clean up anything you don’t want them to see. Don’t try to follow me,’ said Lambert, leaving the office.
‘Hey, what was your name again?’ said the man, as he left.
Lambert waved the data key at the man and threw him the baseball bat.
He found a coffee shop not far from the club. Whilst waiting for his laptop to load, he called Sophie’s mobile which went straight to answerphone. They hadn’t talked in over forty-eight hours. Since Chloe’s death, this wasn’t unusual but he wanted to hear her voice. He considered calling her office but she hated receiving personal calls there. He placed the phone back in his pocket. He ordered a black Americano with an extra shot of espresso and accessed The System through his secured Wi-Fi dongle. He studied the Haydon file on HOLMES once more, confirming that there was no mention of the club, and very little on Roger Haydon save for the brief interview conducted by DS Bradbury.
He loaded the files from the club onto the laptop and found a blurry image of a particularly tall man resembling Terrence Haydon entering at eleven-thirty p.m., and exiting some hours later. He couldn’t see anyone with him, but a second man followed him out of the club seconds later. Both videos were next to useless, the images only illuminated by the glare of neon from the club’s sign and the internal lights from the surrounding buildings. The second man kept his back to the camera at all times. It was probably coincidental, but Lambert played it over and over and began to wonder if the man was avoiding the camera on purpose. It was conceivable that the blurred image was the killer. He saved the image and emailed it to May with a brief explanation of how he’d obtained it.
His phone rang, an unidentified number. Possibly his wife calling from work.
‘Lambert.’
‘Michael, it’s Julian Hastings. I wanted to call to apologise for this morning’s débâcle. That DS was a jumped-up shit. I told young DI May that you shouldn’t have been treated that way. Very amateurish.’
Lambert took another sip of coffee before replying. ‘Not your fault, sir,’ he said.
‘That may well be, but I really should have said something when you were there. Anyway, let me make it up to you.’ Hastings’ tone never changed during their interaction, always the same, matter-of-fact monotone.
‘No need, sir.’
‘I am going to give up on stopping you calling me sir, but I would like to share some information with you. I am sure you’re desperate to know what the commotion was about when you left?’
Lambert had been too busy since to have given it much thought.
‘Another body has been found. Exact same MO as Terrence Haydon.’
Lambert hid his surprise. ‘What details can you give me, sir?’
‘Not much at the moment, but I would get to London if I was you.’
‘The body was found in London?’
‘Yes, and this time the victim was a woman.’
Chapter 16
After leaving the safe house, Lance had driven to the hotel in time to see the man they had attacked the previous night, Lambert, leave the car park.
He immediately called in his sighting of Lambert only to be told to sit tight and focus his attention on the other man, Klatzky.
That had been six hours ago. Plenty of time to sit and think about the previous evening’s fuck-up. The two men from last night had been incompetent. That worried him. If he didn’t know better, if it wasn’t impossible, then he would say Campbell was getting sloppy. The two men had not been fit for purpose. He’d sensed it immediately.
Campbell’s reaction was impossible to read. If he’d been upset with Lance then it hadn’t been evident.
Lance had watched the second man, Klatzky, arrive at the hotel late the previous evening, hand in hand with the young student he’d encountered earlier that day. The woman had been too young, and in Lance’s opinion, too pretty for her companion. Both of them had staggered into the hotel foyer.
It had been amusing watching them amble across the street, holding each other up. It was not amusing now, sitting in the car waiting.
The woman had already left. Fifty-eight minutes ago. Her coat pulled high around the back of her head, she’d snuck out of the hotel as if she knew she was being watched. She’d walked directly past the car, her face deathly white. Lance had felt sorry for h
er then. He recognised the look of remorse and wondered how willing a partner she’d been to the older man, how much drink he’d had to buy for her to stay the night.
Lance had a daughter and an ex-wife, and shuddered to think of either being in such a situation. It was his reason for being here now. He owed Campbell and Campbell knew of their existence. That was enough.
An hour later, Klatzky stumbled onto the street. Dressed in last night’s clothes, he was in an even worse state than the woman. He looked about him like a lost tourist.
Lance left the car and practised his lines as he approached.
‘Mr Klatzky?’ he said, breathing through his mouth to escape the alcoholic fumes emanating from the man.
‘Who are you?’ replied Klatzky. The man was on edge. His whole body shaking, his eyes darting in random directions.
‘Mr Lambert sent me.’
‘Michael? But he’s just had me kicked out of the hotel.’
Lance improvised. ‘That’s why he sent me. To take you back to London.’
Klatzky blinked, absorbing the information.
If he went for his phone, then Lance would have to take action. ‘The car is over there,’ he said, pointing.
Klatzky shrugged and followed him across the road.
‘Please take a seat in the back.’
‘Where’s Michael?’
Lance locked the doors. ‘Care for a drink?’ he asked, producing a hip flask from the glove compartment.
Klatzky snatched the drink away and took a heavy gulp.
‘Keep it,’ said Lance.
He waited for the man to fall asleep before calling it in.
‘Change of plan,’ said Campbell. ‘You need to take him back on your own.’
Lance didn’t protest. ‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘I have made other travel arrangements. Make sure he is secure, and silent,’ said Campbell, hanging up.
Twenty minutes later, Lance pulled the car over and climbed into the back seat. ‘Sorry, buddy,’ he said, cuffing Klatzky’s hands behind him and switching off the man’s mobile phone. He sealed his mouth shut with perforated tape, and laid the sleeping figure into the recovery position.