Dead Eyed (28 page)

‘Boy or girl, it won’t replace Chloe,’ said Sophie. She untangled herself from the covers and moved towards him but Lambert turned his back.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, and left the room.

He heard her leave the house ten minutes later. By which time he was already on his second glass of red wine. She’d said goodbye to him as she’d left and he’d waved back unable to speak. He hoped she understood that he didn’t blame her. It was none of his business who she slept with, and if she’d fallen pregnant so be it.

Yet it felt like a death, like Chloe dying all over again. He stumbled to the drinks cabinet and opened a bottle of vodka. He rarely touched spirits but he needed something to numb the pain. He poured a generous measure into a wine glass and sipped at the drink, wincing as the sharp liquid burned his throat.

He hadn’t cried when Chloe had died. He only found out about it two days after the accident. Two days he’d spent unconscious. Sophie’s mother had been the one to tell him, Sophie too wrapped up in her grief and, Lambert presumed, hatred for him to tell him herself.

He’d been unable to process the information at first. He knew all about the stages of grieving. He’d informed people before of the death of their loved ones. He’d always thought that maybe he’d react differently. Maybe he’d be able to handle it, or at least understand what he was being told.

‘Utter bullshit,’ he shouted into the empty air of the living room. How could his baby girl have died? Why was he still alive? Now with Sophie leaving and being pregnant everything came back to him. The trauma of the time, the bitterness of their lives, the rage he stored within him. He stood and threw the wine glass at the wall.

How could he have let things get to this? Chloe was dead. Sophie had left him. One of his old best friends was currently under arrest, and was possibly linked to the murder of another friend. Whilst Lambert, formally a Chief Inspector, was without a job, sitting in the dark in his living room feeling sorry for himself.

He attacked the drinks cabinet, smashing the bottles one by one against the wall. He screamed, a strange guttural sound he’d never heard escaping from his mouth. Then, as quickly as he’d begun, he stopped.

Stepping over the broken glass, and the merged rivers of whiskey and gin, he picked up the red wine bottle and began to gulp greedily from its neck. Once finished, he opened a second bottle and returned to the sofa. Using the remote he turned on the stereo and synced it with the music on his iPhone.

His last memory was of broken snippets from an ancient Joe Jackson song, and the noise of an empty bottle of wine rattling on the wooden floorboards.

Chapter 38

They decided to wait until morning to interview Klatzky. The man was in no state for questioning. He was unable to stand, his slurred speech incomprehensible.

May spent most of the evening at the Lewisham station, working with Nielson and his team. Nielson set up a conference call with Superintendent Rush and her team back in Bristol, and Bardsley’s team in Watford. With the new information on Billy Nolan’s counsellor, they began working on the hypothesis that the Souljacker was responsible for the death of Samuel Burnham and Kwasi Olumide.

There were two main suspects: Klatzky, drunk in the cells, and a man called Campbell, a man they knew nothing about.

‘I think you should be the one to speak to Klatzky tomorrow,’ said Nielson to May.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Nielson’s team were affable enough. May worked through a possible line of questioning with Nielson, and a young DC, Rebecca Shah. May tried to piece everything together in her head. The coincidence of Klatzky’s blind mother, blind dead mother, had her preoccupied. Nothing concrete had yet appeared on the Campbell character. Everything was a little intangible, too in the air for May’s liking. DCI Bardsley had stated during the conference call that his department was calling in all local informants, trying to get a handle on who this Campbell was but from what they’d uncovered, the man was something of an enigma, while they had a real, live suspect in the cells.

‘Do you think Klatzky’s our man?’ said Shah.

‘I wish he were sober enough so we could find out. We need to find out what he knows about the counselling sessions Nolan attended. See what he knows about Campbell.’

May had ordered Bradbury to pay Davidson and Landsdale another visit at the Gracelife church. It was a long shot but she wanted a physical description of Campbell, a facial composite if possible. Although, after twenty years she wasn’t getting her hopes up.

‘Just arrived for you,’ said Nielson, handing her a file.

May opened the document, surprised to see the medical file of Martha Klatzky, Simon Klatzky’s mother. ‘That was quick.’

‘I wouldn’t get used to it,’ said Nielson.

Martha Klatzky had been diagnosed with cancer when Klatzky was twelve, two years after his father had died. She lost her sight two years later. May didn’t want to dwell on what that would do to a person. According to the file, the council appointed a carer to look after the woman at her home on a part-time basis whilst Simon Klatzky attended school. She died at a hospice the year before Klatzky started University with Lambert and Billy Nolan. The same year Clive Hale became the first Souljacker victim.

‘We need to get someone over to the hospice. Get some background on the mother, on the young Simon Klatzky.’

‘Agreed,’ said Nielson. ‘Let’s see what we get from him in the morning and we can go from there. You should think about wrapping up now. Get some rest.’

‘Sir,’ said May.

May still had a locker from the last time she’d visited the station. She’d filled it with spare clothes for such an occasion. She took the bag she’d packed, and walked down the empty staircase to the front of the station. After saying goodnight to the duty sergeant, she walked out into the cold evening air of Lewisham.

It had been a long day. She rubbed her tense neck deciding to walk the two miles to her hotel in Blackheath. She considered calling Lambert, convincing herself that it would be polite to update him on the case. She needed some company but contacting him now would be unprofessional.

The town was alive with people, busy enjoying themselves oblivious to her troubles. She considered entering a bar for a quick drink. She had a need to be surrounded by people, by normality. She spotted a small bar, The Old Pier Tavern, on the main road out of Lewisham towards Blackheath. From the outside, it had the appearance of an old, traditional pub. The kind she imagined spending lazy Sunday afternoons in.

She was about to cross the street for a closer look when she saw him.

He stood in front of a shop window, staring at a display of flat screen televisions. Sean made a poor job of surveillance. May couldn’t believe he’d followed her to London. And worse, that she’d not spotted him before. When she’d last seen him, she’d promised to arrest him if he came within five hundred metres of him. But now he was here, she lacked the energy. She still didn’t consider him a threat. Physically, at least, she was more than a match for him.

She walked on, checking his following figure with her periphery vision, occasionally losing him in the shadows. She turned left at the Lee Green crossroads, and began walking up the hill to Blackheath.

She upped her pace remembering the fall out after the abortion. It started when she’d first told him she planned to terminate the pregnancy. They’d arranged to meet at the local park. It was a summer evening and they took a spot behind an enclave of trees. A place they’d been together before. May had initially thought he’d understand. He was mature for his age. He’d never tried to rush her into sex the way some of the other boys in her class had, was always considerate of her feelings. She realised it would be painful for him, as it was for her, but she’d never expected his response.

‘You can’t,’ he said, with a sense of finality which made her snort with laughter.

‘Look, Sean, I know you are upset but you can’t expect me to go through with this. I’m only seventeen.’

‘You can’t. God has given us this gift,’ he said, and in that second she realised there would be no negotiating with him.

She’d explained everything. How they were both too young, how it would destroy their lives. She told him they couldn’t afford a baby, that it wouldn’t be fair to bring a child up in their situation.

He listened to every word, a strange pious look on his face. ‘We’re keeping it,’ he said.

‘It’s my body,’ she said, getting to her feet.

He’d made a grab for her arm and pulled himself up as she struggled to remain upright. She pushed him away, and they stood apart in a silent impasse which she broke by kicking him hard between the legs. He collapsed, as if the ground beneath him had been taken away.

She’d run all the way home, told her parents what had happened, and never saw him alone again until years later.

She stopped halfway up the hill, pretending to tie her shoe laces. He was a hundred metres away. He’d stopped when she had, and was looking at a menu on the outside of a restaurant. She considered walking back down the hill to confront him, to clear it all up once and for all, but was so riled up she feared what she would do to him.

She continued into Blackheath village. The hotel was on a back road, behind a small car park. Not an ideal location, although the hotel itself was of a high standard. She headed off the main road onto the side street. It was well lit and only a few hundred metres long. She refused to show any fear where Sean was concerned.

He called out for her as she rounded the corner. ‘Sarah, Sarah, it’s me,’ he said. He ran towards her, oblivious to her look of distaste. ‘I thought it was you. What are the chances?’ he said, catching up on her.

May crossed her arms. ‘The chances are very high. You’re following me, Sean. I’m not an idiot.’

After the incident at the park, he’d ignored her for two weeks. Then the letters had started. Her parents had tried to protect her from them, but she’d insisted on reading every one. She now saw them for what they were, but back then they had come close to destroying her. If there was a cruel name, or insult, he hadn’t used in those letters then she was yet to hear it. They arrived on a daily basis, poisonous missives accusing her of murder, condemning her to an afterlife of eternal damnation. She couldn’t believe she’d been so blinded by him. He wasn’t the person she thought he was, and that hurt almost as much as the vitriolic letters. In the end, her parents went to see his parents. They threatened to take the matter to the police and the letters stopped coming, for a time.

He still wrote to her, even now. Without fail, a letter appeared once a year on the anniversary of the day she had the abortion.

‘I’m not following you. I live here,’ said Sean.

‘London’s a big place, Sean. You followed me. I saw you a mile back on the high street pretending to look at television sets.’

Sean’s eyes drooped, like a guilty child caught in a lie. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’

‘Have you followed me from Bristol?’

He didn’t answer.

May was momentarily impressed. ‘Have you lost your fucking mind? What’s all this about?’

‘I wanted to speak to you,’ he repeated.

‘About what? I don’t know if you are harbouring some fantasy about us getting back together. But that’s all it is, Sean. A fantasy.’ She regretted losing her temper, Sean receiving the full blast of all the tension building in her from the case.

Sean was about to speak when two cars turned off the main road and headed towards them. The first car, a black cab continued driving to the hotel. The second car, a nondescript silver saloon stopped. May recognised the man who left the car. It was truly a night of coincidences.

‘Is this person giving you any trouble?’ said the man.

May was not sure how to feel. She wasn’t some scared female needing protection. Sean was ready to run as the man approached and for that she was thankful. The man looked Sean up and down, his face full of distaste.

‘Who are you?’ said Sean, his voice softer than before.

In that second, it all clicked into place. May understood everything. Unfortunately, it was too late. The man was quick. Quicker than May would have ever imagined. Still looking at Sean, he punched May in her left temple with the side of his hand. May trained two or three times a week in martial arts. She’d received blows to the head numerous times, normally when she’d been wearing protective head gear. The impact from the man’s punch was something else. It had been so unexpected, the force powerful and accurate. Her legs collapsed and she fell to the ground, her body nauseous. Through blurred vision she noticed a sliver of metal in the man’s hand shining in the glow of the street lights. She tried to push herself up but her leg and arm muscles had liquefied.

Sean fell with a thud next to her. May had only a moment to note the vacant look in his eyes, the perfect slice of red across the flesh of his neck, before a second blow sent her into unconsciousness.

Chapter 39

Sunlight pierced the curtains, a shard of light momentarily blinding Lambert. His head thudded in time to the music which still played from the stereo. He switched off his iPhone but the thudding continued.

Somebody called his name from the front door.

‘Mr Lambert,’ they shouted, banging their fists, ringing the doorbell. He got to his feet, his legs buckling. He placed his left hand against the living room wall to steady himself. His stomach lurched. He groaned at the mess, remembered throwing the glass and bottles at the wall. He was surprised his neighbours hadn’t called around earlier. He took some deep breaths and struggled towards the door, ready to apologise.

‘Mr Lambert.’ The sound was more insistent, louder. Through the glass panels of the front door Lambert made out three figures. He opened the door and shielded his eyes from the sunlight.

DCI Nielson stood before him, flanked by two plain-clothed officers. ‘Sorry, did we wake you?’ said Nielson.

Lambert checked his watch. It was one p.m. He hadn’t slept in so late since he’d been at University.