Dead Eyed (27 page)

For the second time since asking for his help, Klatzky had hid something from him. He couldn’t protect him any longer.

May told him about Klatzky’s mother. In all the years he’d known Klatzky, he’d not once mentioned that his mother was blind. They’d all discussed their families at University. Lambert had met some of them during visits, but he realised he didn’t know anything significant about any of his friends’ parents or families. It was the way it was. They’d ask vague questions about one another, and settle for vague answers.

‘Wait here,’ he told May. He’d already scanned the photos from the two files Klatzky had been sent. He sought out the originals from his desk drawer and returned downstairs and handed them to May.

If she was surprised she hid it well.

‘You must know about this victim?’ said Lambert.

‘Kwasi Olumide,’ she said in agreement.

‘Yes.’

‘What the hell’s going on, Michael? Why has Klatzky been sent these?’ she demanded.

‘Your guess is as good as mine at this point.

May sighed, unhappy by his ambiguous answer. ‘When did Klatzky give you the photos?’

‘He gave me the Haydon photos the day before I met you in Bristol. These newer ones were dropped at his house this morning.’

‘Why didn’t you inform us, Michael? You know you could get charged for this.’

‘I’m sharing them now. I was working my own lines of investigation.’

May scanned the files once more. Lambert wondered if it was the withholding of information which was troubling her, or that they’d come close to spending the night together. ‘Has it crossed your mind that Klatzky took them in the first place?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Lambert. He poured more coffee, gripped his cup tight. ‘No, I’m not buying it.’

‘I’m going to have to share this information with Nielson and Bardsley.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘So where is Klatzky now?’

‘I saw him three or four hours ago at Paddington station when he showed me the photos. I left him in the bar drowning his sorrows.’ He told her the name of the bar.

She immediately called it in. ‘Is there anything else you’re withholding from me?’ she asked.

Lambert shrugged his shoulders. ‘You were going to tell me who was running these counselling sessions?’ he said.

‘I’m not sure that’s relevant now,’ said May. She sat on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘This is a right mess,’ she said.

‘Humour me, it might help.’

‘Well, as I said, the woman I met was Sally Davidson. There was another counsellor, male, working on the same night. From an outside agency.’

‘The one who took Billy Nolan’s sessions?’

‘Yes. She wasn’t sure of his first name. She only knew him as Campbell.’

Chapter 36

‘Campbell? You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Why? I thought you were going to spit your coffee all over me then.’

‘You need to speak to DCI Bardsley immediately,’ said Lambert. He explained about Campbell. How his source, Myles Stoddard, had linked a man named Campbell to the murders of Samuel Burnham and Kwasi Olumide.

‘So Bardsley has an arrest warrant out on this guy?’

‘Not quite. We only have the surname at the moment.’

‘It could be a coincidence.’

‘Could be. One hell of a coincidence if it is. Klatzky has been sent two sets of crime scene photos. One of a Souljacker victim, one of a second victim, this one with his eyes sealed shut. Two different forms of murder, both involving the eyes. Nolan and Haydon both attended counselling sessions. One was counselled by someone called Campbell. I think we can start considering the possibility they are linked, one way or another.’

‘Why the different MO?’

‘I think it’s the victims he distinguishes. I don’t fully understand why yet.’

‘Right I’m going to call Bardsley now,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell him, and Nielson, that you volunteered the information on Klatzky.’

‘It’s a bit late but you won’t really be lying.’

She gripped his arm. ‘You have to leave well alone now.’

‘I’ll tell you when Klatzky turns up,’ said Lambert.

May loitered by the front door, as if she was waiting for something else from him. ‘Perhaps we can talk further once this has all finished?’

‘Okay, I’d like that,’ he said, understanding how inadequate his words sounded. He sensed a distance between them, and feared it would only get bigger. As he opened the door to let her out, he saw Klatzky staggering down the street towards the house. The man meandered across the pavement, once walking into a parked car. He didn’t look up until May walked onto the street.

Klatzky stopped. He swayed from side to side, at once pitiful and comical, his mouth wide open.

Lambert stepped out onto the street and waved to Klatzky who lifted his arm in acknowledgment. ‘Simon,’ he shouted. He beckoned him over trying to keep his body language neutral. May kept close, keen not to startle the man.

Klatzky continued staring at them blankly. He’d been drunk at the bar. He’d probably doubled his intake since then. Lambert could only imagine the unhinged thoughts going through his head. Klatzky inched forward like an errant puppy returning to its master.

He was five yards away when May made a move for him. Smiling as she grabbed his arm, she twisted it behind his back, cuffed him, and began reading him his rights.

Klatzky could barely talk. ‘What’s going on?’ he mouthed to Lambert, his words horrendously slurred as if he had a speech impediment.

‘I’ll get you a solicitor,’ said Lambert.

‘There’s some things you haven’t been telling us, Mr Klatzky,’ said May, calling for assistance.

Chapter 37

Sophie appeared as the riot van carted Klatzky away. May was getting into her car and Sophie nodded towards her as if they were acquaintances.

‘What was that about?’ asked Lambert, as May pulled away.

‘What was that about? Are you kidding? You have noticed that a riot van has just turned up at our house and hauled away one of your friends.’

‘Good point. But you’re changing the subject. Did you know that woman?’

‘Your pretty little friend?’ asked Sophie, a hint of mischief in her voice.

‘Sophie?’

‘That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell you that you’re under some form of surveillance.’

‘She’s questioned you?’

‘Verifying some dates. Making sure you were safe and sound at home. Fortunately they matched up. What have you got yourself into, Mike?’

Lambert didn’t know how to answer the question. He was convinced Klatzky was innocent and would have a suitable alibi for the killings. ‘I’m not sure. I need a drink. Fancy going for something to eat?’

‘Okay,’ said Sophie, bemused.

Lambert called a solicitor as they walked to one of the restaurants on the high street. Lambert wasn’t sure who he felt most betrayed by, Klatzky for his deception or May for investigating him behind his back. May was doing her job, and he supposed she didn’t have to question Sophie herself, but still he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that perhaps it had all been pretence. That she’d been toying with him ever since their first meeting.

Before they were married, they had visited the Italian restaurant at least once a month. The owner knew both of them by name. He greeted them with his usual cheer, and ushered them to a table by the window. Lambert ordered a bottle of wine.

‘Not for me,’ said Sophie.

The owner waited for a response. ‘I’ll get the bottle, anyway,’ said Lambert.

‘Sparkling water,’ said Sophie, looking at him in the way only she could. Assessing him, working out his mood, deciding what would be best to ask him. When he refused to discuss the case, she updated him on her latest developments at work.

Lambert soon finished his second glass. ‘You sure you don’t want a glass?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine with water,’ said Sophie.

‘Come on, have a glass.’

‘You can have some more, I won’t tell,’ she said, laughing.

Lambert poured another glass.

‘You can’t hold out all night,’ said Sophie.

It was the second time in as many days he’d shared a meal with his wife. He wasn’t naïve enough to give any significance to the fact. He decided to enjoy their time together whilst it lasted.

‘Fine,’ he said. He told her about everything. How Klatzky had first shown him the photos a few days ago, and the trips to Bristol. It was a relief to unburden everything.

‘You don’t really think Simon is the killer?’ she asked.

Lambert went to protest, then thought about all the people he’d helped bring to justice over the years. So many times he’d encountered friends and families oblivious to the crimes of their loved ones. How much did he really know about Klatzky? He’d withheld so much from him: his blind mother, Billy’s counselling sessions, his own counselling sessions at the church. Would he really be that surprised if Klatzky was revealed as the killer?

‘Simon barely functions. He doesn’t have the capacity for such things. Anyway, he was only seventeen or eighteen when Clive Hale was killed. I don’t buy it.’ Lambert took another drink, realising he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

‘You’re not going to let him back in the house are you?’

‘No. If they do release him I’ll help him get a hotel somewhere.’ He sensed it was all coming to an end. Either Klatzky would be charged, or the killer would be after him.

‘This means you’re back at work now?’ said Sophie.

‘Tillman has suggested I could return.’

And?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

Lambert declined the offer of a second bottle from the owner. They skipped dessert, Lambert ordering a double espresso before asking for the bill.

‘What shall we do now?’ he asked Sophie outside the restaurant. ‘Are you coming home, or are you still at the hotel?’

‘Let’s go home for a bit,’ she said. She linked her arm around his, a shiver running through him. His pulse thumped in his neck. He was excited to be so close to his wife once more, but scared as well. The matter with the solicitor had yet to be resolved. He had known Sophie for most of his adult life and could sense she was withholding something. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.

As they reached their street Lambert slowed the pace. They’d walked in silence, enjoying each other’s company, or perhaps preparing themselves for what lay ahead. Once through the door Lambert kissed her. Sophie stood with her arms by her sides not responding. They hadn’t kissed properly in the two years since Chloe’s death.

Lambert continued undeterred, placing his hands on her cheeks waiting for a response. Time had never moved so slowly. Eventually she lifted her hands to his chest and began kissing him back.

Lambert pulled her to her bedroom. ‘Here, okay?’ he said, embarrassed to have to ask permission to use her bedroom. She didn’t answer, frantically tearing at his clothes. Within seconds they were undressed on the bed together. She kissed him with a fury he’d never encountered from her before. She began biting his lip, pulling at his hair, her desperate movements arousing, yet somehow disturbing, as if she was trying to convince herself she really wanted him.

‘What is it?’ he asked, holding her arms, pulling her face back from his.

She began to cry. ‘I can’t, Michael,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I want to but I can’t.’

Lambert dressed, his face reddening. He could feel his temper rising, though it was not directed at Sophie. He could understand how she felt. Whatever she’d told him, whatever she’d said in the counselling meetings they’d attended, deep down she still blamed him for Chloe’s death.

He couldn’t blame her for that. It was his fault.

Sophie climbed beneath the duvet, wrapped herself in its protective cover. Her face peered out from the top, pleading for his forgiveness.

Fully-clothed, he sat next to her on the bed. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said.

She touched his face, smiling between the occasional sob. He’d always loved the way she looked after she’d been crying, her red cheeks and soft eyes.

‘There’s something else, Michael,’ she said, the tears flowing again.

He may have loved the look of her after she’d been crying but crying itself was a different matter. It made him helpless. He wanted to put his arm around her, but after what had happened he didn’t know the boundaries. All he could do was sit and watch. Her face crumpled in despair.

‘What is it?’ he mouthed.

She was unable to speak through the tears. It was over. He supposed he’d guessed as much at the restaurant. It was probably why he’d kissed her, because he hadn’t wanted to hear the words. He tried to make it easier on her. ‘You’re leaving me,’ he said, his words faltering.

She cried again, shaking her head. Not to deny the fact but to suggest there was something else. In the end, she blurted the words out in a high-pitched yelp interspersed with sobs.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

He froze as a shiver of pain ran through him. He pushed himself from the bed, nauseous, a dull ache in his chest. He hadn’t slept with Sophie since the accident. ‘Who?’ he asked.

‘Does it matter?’

He turned from her, remembering her lift home the other evening with the solicitor. He pictured the man leaning towards her, Sophie rebuffing his advances. ‘Jeremy Taylor,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘How the hell do you know that?’ said Sophie.

Lambert stared at her, tried not to picture her fucking the man in their house.

‘It was only the once. A couple of months back. An office party, I drank too much wine and he offered me a lift home. And…’

Lambert held his hands up. ‘I don’t need to know the details.’

‘It was only the once, Michael. It’s the first time, since…’

Lambert’s skin prickled with heat. He had no right to be upset over the infidelity. He’d slept with two women in the last two years. Once with one of the nurses who’d helped him back to full fitness after the accident, once with a woman he’d met at the local gym. That affair had lasted for two months. He didn’t know if Sophie had ever known but she’d never said anything.

‘Have you told him?’

‘Not yet.’

Lambert’s eyes filled. ‘You’re going to keep it?’ he said, softly.