Dead Eyed

by Matt Brolly

  ‘Can you tell DI May that Michael Lambert is here to see her,’ Lambert said to the uniformed policeman guarding the tape.

  ‘Is she expecting you?’

  Lambert glared at the officer who decided not to take the questioning any further, beckoning over a colleague to guard the tape.

  The constable whispered his message in May’s ear and she broke conversation and looked over. She exchanged words with the man next to Hastings and signalled to Lambert.

  ‘Shall I even ask how you found us?’ asked May, as Lambert approached.

  ‘I have a little of my own investigative ability,’ replied Lambert, nodding in Hasting’s direction.

  ‘Michael, this is DCI Nielson. Michael Lambert, sir,’ said May.

  Nielson scowled and didn’t offer his hand. ‘Mr Lambert. DI May has informed me of your interest in this case.’

  Lambert nodded, taking an instant dislike to the man. Lambert was still technically a DCI himself, despite his leave of absence. He knew what the man would say next.

  Nielson rocked on his heels. He had the upper body of a nightclub bouncer who had not visited the gym in a few months, his cheap navy suit a size too small for him. ‘Whilst I appreciate your experience, and…’ he struggled for the word, ‘expertise, I need to state now that we will not tolerate any interference from you.’

  Lambert mirrored Hastings’ non-committal body language.

  ‘That extends to questioning anyone involved in this case. Do we have an understanding?’

  ‘What can you tell me about the victim?’ asked Lambert, as if he hadn’t heard.

  Nielson rubbed his hand through his close-shave haircut and looked at May, expecting support.

  ‘Sandra Hopkins,’ said May. ‘Forty-two-year-old solicitor. She was on annual leave. No one at her work has heard from her in the last three days.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  Nielson grimaced. ‘The last twelve to eighteen hours. This is not public information, Mr Lambert. You are not involved in this case.’

  ‘I understand that but I could find out all the details with one phone call. It would be easier if you could share the basic details. I won’t interfere. If I come up with anything potentially useful I will share it with you.’

  Nielson sighed and pulled his jacket tight against his huge frame.

  ‘Could I see the crime scene?’ added Lambert.

  ‘I can vouch for him,’ interjected Hastings.

  ‘Whilst I appreciate that, sir, it’s not the point.’

  ‘Let me accompany Mr Lambert,’ said May. ‘The scene has been released now so he can’t do any damage.’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ said Nielson, walking away.

  ‘Hopkins’ landlord, Geoffrey Moon, found the body,’ said May, leading Lambert inside.

  Although the SOCOs had removed the mutilated corpse some time ago, the air was still heavy with the scent of incense. It prompted two emotional memories from Lambert. One from his childhood, alone at mass on a Sunday morning, the other from the time he’d discovered Billy Nolan’s body. Neither were positive associations. The scene had been photographed and videoed, small markers placed on the floor where Hopkins had endured her last minutes.

  ‘No sign of a break-in,’ said May.

  ‘You think Hopkins knew the killer?’

  ‘At least well enough to invite him into her house.’ She told him about a neighbour seeing Hopkins entering the building with a man. ‘Thank you for the information you received from Haydon’s father, by the way. I’ve sent a team over to the club.’

  Lambert knew the admission was embarrassing for May.

  ‘Try not to piss Nielson off, though,’ she continued, handing him a computer tablet. ‘Here, these are the photos from today.’

  Lambert grimaced, trying to detach himself from what he was seeing. Like Haydon, Sandra Hopkins had been found with her eyes removed and the usual inscription carved into her stomach. ‘Was she alive throughout the attack?’

  ‘We believe so. Do you really think the killer believes he takes their souls when he kills them?’ asked May.

  ‘No,’ replied Lambert. ‘The papers invented that part of the story.’

  ‘Didn’t Hasting investigate the religious aspect?’

  ‘Yes, but that had a lot to do with the Latin and the incense.’

  ‘We think we know where the incense at Haydon’s crime scene came from. A small church in Weston-super-Mare. We’re going to check the incense on Hopkins’ body. See if it comes from the same source.’

  ‘It’s amazing what they can do with incense processing nowadays,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Staggering how we’ve developed in the last few years,’ replied May, playing along with the joke.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve had to reassess my working theory. In the past, I thought it was some religious nut-job making a point about immorality. Though I still don’t know why Billy Nolan was victimised,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Wasn’t he immoral?’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  ‘We know that at least four of the victims were homosexual. From what we’ve discovered, thanks primarily to you, it’s possible Haydon was gay.’

  ‘Looks that way. You should speak to Hastings. They looked at the hate crime angle.’

  ‘Was Billy Nolan gay?’

  ‘He did a good job concealing it if he was. What about Hopkins?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘From what Nielson has ascertained, she was known to date men and women.’

  They walked outside. The sky had darkened. A scattering of officers still manned the street outside Hopkins’ flat. ‘So you’ll be working the two cases in tandem with Nielson?’

  ‘For the time being.’

  ‘Are you staying in London?’

  May smirked. ‘For the time being.’

  Lambert went to say something but stopped. His mouth was dry and he realised he hadn’t had anything to drink since leaving Bristol. May was staring at him, that slight tilt of her mouth suggesting that she wanted him to ask her something.

  In the end she broke the silence. ‘Care to show me around?’

  Lambert hesitated, and May interrupted him before he had time to speak. ‘No, don’t worry. I’m sure you have other things to do.’

  Lambert went to argue but the moment had been lost. ‘I’ve a few things to catch up on,’ he said, hoping the heat he sensed spreading on his face wasn’t visible.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said May, walking away. Twenty metres down the road, she stopped. The breath caught in Lambert’s throat as she returned, handing him a card with her hotel details on it. ‘I’m staying here, if you change your mind,’ she said.

  Lambert took the card without replying, hoped he didn’t look too dumbstruck.

  Lambert called Sophie’s office on the drive home. Sydenham was only a couple of miles away from his house, and he couldn’t help but dwell on the possible coincidence. ‘I’m afraid she’s going straight to answerphone,’ said one of the firm’s receptionists. ‘Would you like to leave a message?’

  ‘No, that’s fine. I’ll try her mobile again.’ The mobile went straight to answerphone.

  The house was empty. It felt like he’d been away for longer than a day. He didn’t call out. Sophie would still be at work, or dining out with a client, or one of the firm’s partners. Lambert placed a ready meal in the microwave and moped around the house, restless.

  He stopped at Sophie’s bedroom door. Cursing himself, he opened it. Light blue sheets were pulled tight across the mattress. He checked her bathroom. There were no signs that she’d showered there that morning. The towels were dry as were the bristles on her toothbrush. ‘Idiot,’ he mouthed to himself, wondering when he would resort to reading her emails, or intercepting her text messages.

  He walked along the corridor to Chloe’s room. She would have been eleven this year. He hadn’t been in her room since the accident, couldn’t face the potential memories it would evoke, but could picture it with total clarity. His han
d went to the door handle, when a shrill ring from the oven’s timer diverted his attention.

  Lambert laboured over his ready meal and retreated to his office. A note on The System signalled a private message from Tillman. It was an update on the Souljacker case. The detail was as thin as he’d expected. He’d learnt more from attending the crime scene.

  He searched The System for details on Sandra Hopkins. Information came in from various sources. Nielson’s team had entered the case on HOLMES. Lambert read details of the preliminary investigations, statements from Hopkins’ neighbours, colleagues, friends and family. Lambert composed a file on the woman from records he accessed from her firm’s database, her social media and email accounts. He didn’t see anything salacious. She was a forty-two-year-old professional woman, single, no children. From her emails it looked as if she was dating two women she’d met on a dating site. He crosschecked with HOLMES, discovering that the police had already interviewed both women.

  DCI Nielson had already made a tenuous link between Hopkins and the other victims. Hopkins had studied at Bristol University and had been completing her training contract with a local firm of solicitors during the period when Billy Nolan was murdered. She was still with the same firm but had been working out of one of their London offices for the last ten years specialising in contract law.

  For the sake of completion, Lambert ran a sub-routine cross referencing Sandra Hopkins with the other victims, and narrowed the search to her, Billy Nolan, and Terrence Haydon but again came up blank.

  He shut down The System and called Sophie’s mobile for a final time. He needed to hear her voice. He felt absurdly alone in the house, still reeled from having almost entered Chloe’s room. He hung up on the answerphone message, regretful that his wife would see so many missed calls. The tension of the case was getting to him. He checked in with Klatzky who was also avoiding him.

  He’d only know her for twenty-four hours but his thoughts kept returning to Sarah May, and the brief time they’d spent together alone. He took her card from his wallet and turned it over in his hands. It was a dangerous game, and the wrong time to play it. He paced the lower floor of his house debating it. ‘Fuck it,’ he mouthed, and called her.

  They met at a poorly lit pub in Bromley. The gloom hid the faded carpet and scratch marks on the wooden furniture. Lambert ordered a bottle of red wine, grimacing on his first sip.

  ‘I can taste hints of copper, and rust,’ he said.

  May leant forward and winced as she drank from her glass. Her skin looked fresh, a gleam in her eyes. The tiredness he’d noticed in her before evaporated. She twisted her hair with her left hand and held his gaze. ‘What do you expect for £8 a bottle?’

  ‘Fair point. So how are you finding the big smoke?’

  ‘You kidding? This is my home town.’

  ‘You’re a cockney?’ Lambert already knew she had studied in London from her file. He was surprised again at how relaxed he felt in her company.

  ‘Something like that. North of the river, though.’

  ‘Snob,’ replied Lambert. ‘I’m sarf London.’

  ‘Well, I did venture south for University. Goldsmiths.’

  Lambert took a second sip of wine, the taste mellowing. ‘How come you’re in Bristol?’

  May shrugged. ‘Just worked out that way. I followed the openings.’

  ‘Would you like to return one day?’

  ‘It’s only ninety minutes on the train,’ she said.

  Lambert tried not to read anything into the sentence. He took a longer drink of the wine, glad he’d decided to call her. Although she put him at ease, there was something intriguing about her. She gave conflicting signals and he found himself enjoying the challenge of being in her company.

  ‘Sorry again about this morning. DS Bradbury is a strong copper but can be a tad aggressive with strangers. It was clumsy,’ said May.

  ‘No need to explain. How’s the investigation at the nightclub going?’

  ‘We received a warrant to close the place down for the night. Not expecting much but you never know. Apparently the owner, a Mr Collins, is a little bit shaken.’

  ‘Really?’ said Lambert, rubbing the back of his head where the nightclub owner had attacked him. ‘And Roger Haydon?’

  ‘We went to speak to him but he wasn’t at his house. We have a car waiting for his return. We plan to speak to Mr Langtree as well.’

  May agreed to a second bottle of wine. ‘I’ll leave the majority of the drinking to you, though,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to turn up to my first full day in London with a hangover now, do I?’

  ‘Hastings has a lot of good things to say about you,’ said May, when Lambert returned from the bar with the most expensive bottle of wine he could order.

  ‘Oh yes? Don’t tell me that old bastard showed some emotion? Maybe he’ll include me in his next book. Fifteen pounds,’ he said pouring her a glass.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, but he was praising your analytical skills. He mentioned that even during the Billy Nolan case, you remembered details no one else recalled.’

  The new wine tasted no better than the last bottle. ‘Oil and vinegar,’ he said, turning up his nose. ‘You ever read any of his books?’

  ‘Hastings? Yeah, they’re quite good actually. I’m reading his latest, where the victim is blind,’ said May.

  Lambert recalled the details of Hastings’ book. ‘Blood Kill?’

  ‘Yep, great title.’

  ‘You think Hastings’ time on the Souljacker case has filtered into his writing?’

  ‘It’s certainly interesting. I keep searching for clues in his writing, in case he’s slipped some details about the Souljacker into the work.’

  Lambert leant forwards, May only inches away from his face. Beneath the smell of wine, he caught a hint of vanilla from her skin. ‘What’s the name of the protagonist again?’ he asked, leaning back, not wanting to invade her space.

  ‘Trent.’

  ‘Yes, Trent. A tall, sullen Superintendent?’

  ‘Write what you know, I guess,’ said May. ‘What do you think about Hastings?’

  Lambert pictured the first time he’d seen Hastings, standing outside Billy Nolan’s room. He remembered the sense of calm which exuded from the man, as if the scene was nothing new to him. ‘He helped me get into the force, and I’ve been in contact with him on and off over the years, but I don’t really know him that well.’

  ‘Is he always so forthcoming?’ said May.

  ‘Not the most talkative is he? I think that’s his way. What did he tell you about his previous work on the Souljacker cases?’

  ‘Nothing I haven’t read about in his files.’

  ‘He can be stubborn. It might be that he’s waiting for the right questions.’

  ‘And what are those?’ asked May, the side of her lip snaking upwards as she grinned, the gesture already a familiar one.

  ‘There’s the rub. Any news on your missing hospital patient?’

  May looked momentarily surprised. ‘I’d managed to put that to the back of my mind,’ she said.

  Lambert played with his glass. If the events were linked, then he should divulge the information to her. It may be more important than she realised to find the missing patient.

  ‘Something you need to tell me?’ she said, picking up on his hesitation.

  He poured her another glass of wine. ‘Enough shop talk,’ he said. The time wasn’t right. Confessing to breaking the man’s leg would only draw attention to him. He needed to find out for himself why he was being targeted and couldn’t afford any obstacles for the time being.

  They spent the next hour avoiding talk about the case, the second bottle improving as the first had done. May told him about an ex-boyfriend who’d recently returned to Bristol and had begun bothering her. When he jokingly vowed vengeance, Lambert realised he’d drunk too much.

  The landlord practically threw them out of the bar. May interlinked her arm with his and he accompanied
her back to her hotel.

  ‘Here we are then,’ she said. Her body was inches away, her blouse lifting in rhythm with her increased heartbeat, the smell of vanilla from her skin in the air. ‘There may be some more cheap wine in my minibar,’ she suggested.

  Lambert wanted nothing more than to join her inside but he hesitated. It was the wrong moment. ‘Sorry,’ he said, reluctantly turning away.

  Chapter 19

  The man hadn’t stirred since falling asleep two hours ago. Lance had kept an even pace, first through the city then on the motorway. He didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, what was in store for the man.

  On the radio, a jovial DJ played an unending line of eighties classics. Lance sang along to the tunes, for a time imagining that he wasn’t transporting a prisoner to his death.

  He’d first met Campbell five years ago. A friend of a friend had put them in touch. The man was almost impossible to get hold of. It had taken Lance six appointments with various underlings before Campbell had granted him an audience. The first thing Campbell did on meeting him was place a folder in front of Lance. The folder contained pictures of his wife and children in various locations.

  ‘They will be monitored, on and off, during our time together,’ said Campbell. ‘A number of pre-determined check-in times are already established. If anything happens to me, preventing me meeting you at these check-in times, for whatever reason, including me being under arrest and not excluding death, then a series of consequences will ensue. Do we have an understanding?’

  Lance remembered the smile on Campbell’s face at his distress. The line of his upper lip, as devoid of humour as the man was devoid of a conscience.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Lance.

  ‘Good. You will know me as Campbell. How may I be of service?’

  Money. Always money.

  Lance’s gambling had once again grown out of control and he was in debt, and his creditors were not the sort of people who accepted payment plans. He explained the situation to Campbell who insisted on hearing every detail. He quizzed Lance over his addiction. When had it started? Why did he feel out of control? Had he never thought about his wife and family? He was half-therapist, half -disappointed parent discovering his son was not the perfect boy he’d dreamt he would be.