Dead Eyed (17 page)

‘No. I didn’t look. I just took the lift.’

‘What happened once he had picked you up?’

Klatzky squirmed in his seat, curling into himself. ‘He gave me a drink.’

‘And you took it?’

‘I thought you’d sent him,’ said Klatzky, his voice rising. His eyes were continuously moving, darting around the room, snatching the occasional glance at Lambert.

‘Then what?’

‘I fell asleep. Next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground surrounded by dumpsters. I think he stuck something over my mouth. My lips hurt like hell.’

The story was implausible but Lambert could see no reason why Klatzky would make it up. ‘Where exactly?’

‘It took me hours to find out I was in Uxbridge of all places. I had to hitch a ride here which believe me was not easy. What’s happening, Mikey? First the photos and now this. What do they want from me?’

It was a good question. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me? Something about Billy or Terrence?’

Klatzky shrugged.

‘Look, Si, I want to help you but if you’re holding something back then what can I do?’

‘Michael.’ Sophie was shouting from upstairs.

‘Think on,’ said Lambert, leaving the room.

‘He can’t stay here,’ said Sophie. She stood outside her room, her arms holding the slight kimono around her body. Despite the circumstances, Lambert felt the first rush of desire for his wife he’d had in months.

‘He’s in trouble, Soph, I need to help him.’

‘He’s a useless drunk.’

‘I know, but he wasn’t always that way. He’s not a bad guy. I’ll make sure he’s gone by tomorrow.’

Sophie sighed, and leant towards him. Lambert’s pulse raced, his body stuck in position. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘But both of you please get to bed, I need to be up for work in a couple of hours.’

Klatzky was asleep on the sofa by the time he came down again. His putrid smell overwhelmed the room. Lambert opened a window and adjusted Klatzky’s position on the sofa so he looked almost comfortable.

Upstairs, he tried to reconcile what Klatzky had told him. First the photographs and now the mysterious lift. Someone was interested in Klatzky, or possibly Lambert himself. He flicked through The System, hoping for inspiration. He searched through recent incidents handled by Major Incident Teams. Text and visuals scrolled across the six screens in his office. A number of gang-related drug busts, two with fatalities. An armed robbery at a small local bank. A missing nine-year-old boy, last seen walking home alone from his school.

He locked the screen as a particularly nasty image appeared: a father brutally murdered in his house by his wife and teenage daughter. The wife had poured a pot of boiling fat over the man’s head, and the girl had proceeded to stab the man repeatedly in the back with a kitchen knife. Lambert read the case notes, sickened by the instances of abuse seemingly ignored by social services. He’d seen it happen countless times before. The abuse eventually became too much. From the notes, it was unlikely that the mother and daughter would face prosecution.

Lambert was about to switch The System off when another case caught his eye. He stopped the screen, amazed at what he was reading. With a click of his mouse, he printed off a set of case notes. He knew the SIO, DCI Josh Bardsley. He read the printed notes, examined the crime scene photos in detail.

A corpse, captured from many angles.

It was the face which held Lambert’s interest.

More specifically the eyes, which had both been sealed shut.

Chapter 22

Lambert read the details on HOLMES. The victim, Samuel Burnham, had died two days ago. His eyes had been sealed shut with a thin line of thread. As in the Souljacker murders, the evidence suggested that the victim was alive during the procedure. In addition to sealing Burnham’s eyes, the killer had carved off the man’s lips.

Lambert searched through the HOLMES entry once more. A connection on The System had already been made with the murders of Terrence Haydon, and Sandra Hopkins. Nielson had made contact with Bardsley, but nothing in the report linked the killings, other than the obvious.

Sophie’s door creaked open downstairs. Lambert sprung off his chair and headed down to meet her.

‘Still up?’ she asked.

‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘There’s a surprise.’ She’d changed into her work clothes. Water from her hair, still wet from showering, dripped onto her cream blouse.

‘I wanted to apologise about last night.’

‘Specifically?’

‘Scaring you. Simon. I’ll get rid of him, I promise.’

She shrugged and turned away. Halfway down the stairs she stopped, and with some kindness asked, ‘You know it is only two weeks away now, don’t you?’

Lambert rubbed his cheeks, his palms massaging the prickly growth of his stubble. ‘I know,’ he said. He hadn’t forgotten about Chloe’s memorial service. It was not something he had to actively engage with. His daughter was constantly in his thoughts.

‘Whatever this is all about, don’t forget.’ She fixed him with the coldest of stares. He went to argue but she’d already turned away.

He checked up on Klatzky and decided to let him sleep. He caught a taxi to May’s hotel, hoping he’d catch her before she went into the office. He wanted to discuss the killing he’d discovered on The System.

She was in the hotel’s dining room, sharing a continental breakfast with Julian Hastings. Lambert wasn’t sure if the retired officer was tagging along to get material for one of his books, or was still hoping he could salvage some professional pride by helping to solve the case.

‘Good morning, Michael,’ said Hastings, as he approached. He stood to shake hands with Lambert.

May glanced his way, betraying nothing about the previous evening.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ continued Hastings. ‘I was explaining to DI May here that I have some connection with the latest victim, Sandra Hopkins. Can I get you something to drink?’

Lambert took a seat next to May, as Hastings ordered coffee from a waitress. ‘Oh, really?’

‘Twenty years ago, would you believe? I had to check my records, but I knew the name rang a bell. It was a criminal negligence case. Hopkins’ firm represented the accused. She was a trainee solicitor. Nothing more than a paper holder, but I spoke to her on a number of occasions.’

‘When exactly?’ asked Lambert.

Hastings gave him the date. It coincided with the investigation into the sixth Souljacker victim, William Perryman.

‘Hopkins was still in Bristol at that time. She’d completed her training contract and was working in the firm’s commercial section,’ said May.

‘Does Nielson know?’ asked Lambert.

‘Yes,’ said May. ‘But there’s something more. The case was an NHS negligence case involving an eye surgeon.’

Lambert stared at her. ‘You’re joking?’

‘No. The surgeon was cleared and still practices, now in Gloucester. We have him under surveillance. DS Bradbury and the team are working through the old cases, seeing if they can find something substantial so we can get him in for questioning. I’m going back shortly to assist.’

‘Sounds a bit convenient,’ said Lambert.

May didn’t respond.

‘What do you think, sir?’ asked Lambert.

‘Obviously it’s worth pursuing, but I agree, it all sounds too convenient. I would be surprised if the killer would be so sloppy, after so long,’ said Hastings.

‘Unless he wants to get caught,’ said May.

Hastings shrugged. Lambert ran through everything in his head. Now would be the time to tell May about the photos Klatzky received, and his mysterious lift home from Bristol. First he wanted some answers. ‘Have you read the Samuel Burnham case?’ he asked.

‘DCI Nielson and I have been liaising with the team in Hertfordshire. At the moment, we’re ruling out any direct link.’

Hastings slanted his head, and May updated him on details about the killing. ‘The eyes have it,’ he said.

Two uniformed officers entered the hotel. ‘My chariot awaits,’ said May. ‘Thank you for the coffee,’ she said to Hastings.

Hastings dropped his head half a centimetre, his face blank.

Lambert followed May out of the hotel. ‘I presume Nielson wouldn’t approve of my accompanying you?’

‘No, but there is something you could do for me. Your friend, Simon Klatzky. Have you seen him recently?’

‘Why?’

‘It would be a good idea if he attended a local police station. There was somewhat of a fracas at the University student union the other evening. Mr Klatzky caused a bit of damage.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘And Nielson is on the warpath for him, especially with that arrest warrant still outstanding.’

‘Okay. I’ll advise him when I see him.’ He couldn’t bring himself to tell her about Klatzky. Klatzky was his only link to the Souljacker, and he wasn’t willing to give him over to May or anyone else at that moment. ‘Is Nielson going with you to see the surgeon?’

‘No, not yet at least. Listen, about last night,’ she began.

‘No, no. You’ve more important things to be getting on with,’ he said.

May swept a piece of hair from her eyes, offering him a brief smile. ‘See you soon,’ she said, lowering herself into the back of the waiting police car. Lambert didn’t know if it was a question or a statement.

‘I’m going to get going, Michael,’ said Hastings, surprising him with a light tap on the back. ‘I’ve settled up inside. I’m heading home on the train. Like the old days this. Can’t say I miss all the drama. Be seeing you.’

‘Sir.’

Lambert called Bardsley. He hadn’t spoken to the man in five or six years. Bardsley had started in CID on the same day as Lambert. Glenn Tillman, then a mere DI, had been their divisional leader. They’d worked together for three years before Bardsley moved stations.

He was now a DCI out of Watford Central Station. They agreed to meet later that morning. Lambert caught the overground out of Bromley and was surprised to reach Watford in less than an hour.

Lambert spotted Bardsley as soon as he entered the greasy spoon called Terry’s. He sat alone, nursing a mug of tea. He beckoned Lambert over as he entered the café.

‘You look older,’ said Lambert, sitting on the yellow plastic chair.

Bardsley smirked. He was the same age as Lambert with a drawn, thin face which made him look about ten years older.

‘What’s this about, Mike?’ Bardsley’s voice still had a lilt of the Black Country to it. The combination of his face and slow voice often made people underestimate the man. Something Bardsley always used to his advantage.

‘As I mentioned on the phone, I have some questions about the Burnham case.’

‘You’re not working at the moment.’

‘Not officially. I’m helping out with a case.’

‘The Souljacker murders,’ said Bardsley, taking a sip from his tea and smirking again.

‘Glad you’re up to speed on that. What do I need to get a coffee around here?’

Bardsley shouted over to the proprietor. ‘Coffee, John. I’ve exchanged words with the fragrant DI May on the subject, if that’s what you’re after.’

An obese red-haired man stumbled over and handed Lambert a chipped mug of milky coffee. ‘You have me at a disadvantage then, Josh. So what do you know?’

‘About the case or about you?’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘Well, she is one good-looking woman that’s for sure.’ Bardsley leant forward and smiled, conspiratorially.

‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

‘Bullshit. Anyway, we’ve been in contact since that Haydon boy was slaughtered. Nasty business. As you know it happened within two days of the Burnham kid dying. It was May who contacted me about the potential link.’

Lambert hadn’t seen any notes to that effect on The System. May had never mentioned Burnham or Bardsley in their time together, apart from that morning when he had questioned her. ‘So what can you tell me?’

Bardsley scratched his head, playing the dumb officer role. ‘If the situation was reversed, would you share anything with me?’

Lambert considered everything he’d read on The System. With a little time, he believed he’d know more than Bardsley about Burnham’s murder. If there was any link, then he would find it. ‘I don’t really know, Josh. You know this is personally relevant to me?’

‘Of course I do, and that’s why I agreed to meet you.’

Over Bardsley’s shoulder, the red-haired proprietor hacked away at some onions and dropped them onto a grime-covered hot plate. Within seconds, a cloud of stale fat hovered over the café.

‘Okay, I’ll give,’ said Bardsley. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Thanks, Josh. You’ve answered one of my questions already.’

‘Whether we’ve examined the link between the Burnham and Haydon killings?’

‘Yes.’

‘Apart from the eyes, there doesn’t seem to be anything in it.’

‘And Burnham’s the first?’

‘Yes. As far as we are aware. Badly beaten, eyes sealed shut.’

‘Before or after death?’ asked Lambert.

‘During would be more apt. From what I’ve discussed with May, the Souljacker victims were all drugged first.’

‘So I believe.’

‘Well, this guy didn’t anaesthetise.’

‘So was there a struggle?’

‘Not exactly. There was a heavy blow, signs of restraint. Burnham never had the chance to fight back. The fucker sliced his lips off.’

‘The lips? Was he a grass?’

‘Could be. We know him as a petty criminal. Two prison terms both for burglary.’

‘Some sort of vigilante killing?’ asked Lambert.

‘Perhaps. But Burnham was small fry, at least from what we know of him.’

‘And you’re sure there’s no link with the Souljacker killings? Seems bloody coincidental to me.’

‘No one’s ruling it out. It’s plausible considering the times and locations of the two recent Souljacker murders. But from what I understand I don’t think they’re linked. The Burnham scene was a mess. It was a frenzied attack, a lot of damage to the body. From what I’ve seen of the Souljacker, he seems more restrained.’

‘Yeah, he’s a fucking delight,’ said Lambert.

Bardsley ordered some more drinks. ‘Listen, Mike. I never told you how sorry I was to hear about Chloe,’ he said.

Bardsley had been at funeral but Lambert had been on such heavy medication at the time, the memory of that day was fuzzy at best. He’d never told anyone but he’d felt cheated afterwards. The grief he’d felt during the funeral had been abstract, as if he was viewing himself grieving from afar. The full impact of his loss didn’t hit him until months later, when Chloe’s absence overtook him. He’d holed himself up in his room, and had barely left for weeks. He’d never had the chance to properly say goodbye, and wished now he’d gone to the funeral drug-free, whatever physical agony that would have caused him.