Dead Eyed (5 page)

‘Naturally,’ said May.

‘I was particularly interested in the victim, Terrence Vernon.’ He studied May for a response. If she was surprised she didn’t show it.

‘What about him?’

‘I was wondering how much you knew about him.’

‘How much information do you have on the case?’

‘As I said, I’ve read some notes.’

‘I understood you are not active at the moment. I read something on your file about an absence of leave?’ said May. The words were matter of fact, contained no hostility.

‘Something like that. I take it you’ve made the same connection I’d had about Mr Vernon.’

‘You’re talking about Mr Vernon’s other name?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was his mother who let it slip. I spent some time with her. She told me about her divorce and how Terrence had changed his name back from Haydon to Vernon after leaving University. From there, we made the link with Billy Nolan. They were at University together. He lived one floor above Billy Nolan.’ She paused. ‘One floor above you.’

Lambert paused, assessing the underlying words. ‘I needn’t have bothered you, then,’ he said.

‘You’re not bothering me. So tell me what else you know.’

‘Not much more than that,’ replied Lambert.

May’s face contorted into a half smile, half frown. ‘Oh come on, we’re not going to play those games are we?’

Lambert shrugged. ‘From what I can see it’s highly probably that it’s the same killer,’ he said, checking no one was eavesdropping.

‘Of course, you saw the original body. Your friend Nolan.’

Lambert thought back to the day when they’d kicked down Billy Nolan’s door. Nolan’s corpse with its bloodied sockets, lying naked on the bed. The smell, a terrifying mixture of death and decay, not fully masked by the overpowering perfume of the incense. Klatzky had been right. That smell was part of Lambert too. He could taste it now at the back of his throat. He took a large swig of his coffee mirroring Klatzky’s earlier actions. Once he’d composed himself he said, ‘The carving is the same. Identical. And the eyes. He was alive when they were removed?’ he asked, knowing the answer.

May pursed her lips. ‘They haven’t been recovered. Like the others. Were Nolan and Haydon friends at University?’

‘No. We all knew Terrence but he wasn’t what we’d call a friend.’

And what was he like as a person?’ May raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. A practised gesture which had no doubt obtained many a confession from helpless suspects.

‘I’m sure you know all this but he was bit of a strange one.’

‘Mad Terry,’ said May, surprising him once more.

‘Mad Terry. He was a nice enough guy, though. Intelligent. I assume he was hardworking because he was always at lectures. Never slept in. Hardly went out.’

‘Any enemies?’

‘No. People talked about him behind his back obviously, me included I’m afraid. He wasn’t a threat to anyone and no one had any grievance with him.’

‘No altercations with Nolan?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware. I would say it is highly unlikely.’

May ordered another coffee from the counter. Lambert asked for a glass of water, his bloodstream thick with caffeine. When she returned he tried to take the initiative. ‘So what are you working on at the moment?’ he asked.

‘Normal procedures. We’re looking into Haydon’s church. As before, there was incense at the crime scene so we’ve contacted local churches to see if any amounts have gone missing. But the problem with these guys is that they just don’t have strong stock control.’ She raised her eyebrows again, a completely different look to before. The gesture softened her face and made Lambert feel like she was being companionable.

‘We’re crosschecking the other murders too but the connection between this murder and Billy Nolan’s is our main focus at present. In fact if you hadn’t found me there was a good chance that I’d have had to find you.’

‘How can I help now?’ asked Lambert.

‘Maybe you could stick around for a bit. I could do with some insight on the Nolan murders, if that wouldn’t affect you too much? Obviously I would prefer it if you didn’t conduct your own investigation.’ Her eyes narrowed, Lambert understanding the warning. She hesitated for a beat, the first sign of indecisiveness he’d seen. ‘Perhaps we could meet for dinner this evening?’ she said.

‘Sure,’ said Lambert, a little quicker than he would have liked.

DI May stood up to leave. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you,’ she said, shaking his hand.

‘I’ll see you this evening,’ said Lambert. He relaxed as he watched May cross the floor of the coffee shop. The encounter had surprised him. May was more open than he’d expected, and he imagined how easy it would be to work with her.

As he was about to look away, May stopped and turned. ‘Oh, Michael. Please feel free to bring along Mr Klatzky this evening as well if you wish.’

Chapter 5

Light blazed through the office windows on the third floor of the Bristol Central Police Station. DI Sarah May pulled down the blinds in her temporary office, blocking the piercing September sun and opened the window an inch to allow fresh air into the musty-smelling room. After switching on her computer, for the second time that day she turned her attention to Michael Lambert’s file. She’d enjoyed meeting Lambert. So much so that she’d suggested they meet that evening. It had been an impulsive request which she’d convinced herself she’d made for professional reasons.

His file made for interesting reading. He’d joined the force a year after leaving University, joining the same accelerated programme she was on at the moment. After two years’ probation, he’d moved straight to CID. His training officer, Glenn Tillman, was now a Chief Superintendent working for the NCA.

Lambert worked in major crimes and had reached the level of Detective Chief Inspector by the time Tillman recruited him again for a division in SOCA. The trail went cold after that. Lambert’s last three years of service had been almost blanked from the records. Even her Super didn’t have the clearance required to access details on Lambert’s term in SOCA.

She dropped the file on the desk and stared at the photo supplied with the file. If it had been taken some time ago, it didn’t show. Lambert was six foot one with the kind of slim, wiry body she associated with athletes. The photo captured his sad, doleful hazel eyes but missed the lopsided grin she’d encountered during their meeting at the coffee shop.

It had been convenient he’d emailed last evening. It hadn’t taken her long to link him to Terrence Haydon. Lambert had been friends with the last Souljacker victim, Billy Nolan, eighteen years ago. May had subsequently discovered that Haydon had lived in the same halls of residence as Nolan and Lambert.

May placed her hands on her cheeks and stared at Lambert’s photo. He’d made a good lunchtime companion. Funny and intelligent, self-depreciating, he was the sort of man she’d always been attracted to. Still, he was definitely holding back on something. They had tiptoed around the case, each only sharing the minimum of information. She’d asked him not to start his own investigation. His response had been non-committal at best.

A shadow lurked behind the glass panelled door of her office. She recognised the shape.

‘Yes,’ she shouted.

DS Jack Bradbury opened the door. ‘Christ, bit fresh in here isn’t it?’

May had been so wrapped up in Lambert’s file that she hadn’t noticed the cold air leaking through the window. ‘Jack, what have you got for me?’

‘The file you wanted. Simon Klatzky. Bit thin, I’m afraid.’

‘Thanks.’

Bradbury dropped the file and exited the office without a word. They had dated, if it could be called that, for two months prior to May becoming an Inspector. It had been an impulsive thing, and like all her impulsive actions it was something she’d had to learn to live with. Two years later, and still he moped after her. They’d managed to keep the affair a secret back then. Now she wished they had been more open about it. That way they would never have ended up working together, and she wouldn’t have to see his wounded look every time she refused to pay him attention.

The file on Klatzky was indeed thin. Like Lambert, and fifty other students, Klatzky had been interviewed following the death of Billy Nolan. In his statement, Klatzky had declared that out of the small group of Nolan’s friends, he was probably the closest. His life following his friend’s death suggested that he had not taken the incident very well.

Klatzky had been a promising engineering student, and had left Bristol University with a first. Yet, he had never held down a significant job since graduating. Now there was an arrest warrant out on him for failure to appear at court following a bout of shoplifting. One of Lambert’s former colleagues had spotted Lambert and Klatzky arriving at Temple Meads station that morning. Knowing that May was working on the Souljacker case, and Lambert’s tenuous link, he had called May with the information. It had been worth it to see the look on Lambert’s face when she’d asked him to bring Klatzky along for dinner that night.

May stretched her legs, tensing her calf muscles. She hadn’t been for a run since Haydon’s body had been discovered. The lack of exercise filled her body with tension. She’d been struggling to sleep recently, her legs twitching her awake at night. She promised herself she would make time for a quick run that evening, before her meeting with Lambert. It would be negligent not to do so. Healthy body, healthy mind, as her father would say.

Talking of healthy body, she hadn’t had a coffee in nearly an hour. She walked to the small kitchen office and dropped some instant coffee into a mug. It wasn’t ideal but was the best available. Two DCs, Tony Chambers, and Lyle Coombes, stopped talking as she entered.

‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’ she asked.

‘No, ma’am.’

Both men worked on the Souljacker case. Clearly, they felt awkward with her presence in the kitchen but they were waiting for the kettle to boil so couldn’t leave the close confines of the room. She didn’t make it easy for them. She leant back on the sideboard and folded her arms, both men doing everything to avoid her gaze. Strange how a simple change of title could affect the way people interacted with you. How you interacted with them. ‘Any news for me?’

‘Um, no, ma’am,’ said Chambers. ‘We’ve interviewed some more of his work colleagues, and they all spouted the same stuff.’

‘Nice enough guy, kept himself to himself,’ said Coombes, gaining courage from his partner.

The kettle boiled. ‘Don’t mind if I jump the queue?’

The men shook the heads, desperate for her to leave.

Back at her desk, she examined the old case files. Ten Souljacker victims in a twenty-one year period, but an eighteen year gap since the last murder. She may have considered Haydon’s death a copycat had there not been the link between him and the last victim, Nolan.

Absurd as it sounded, they had called in a handwriting expert to compare the indentations ripped into the torso of Terrence Haydon, with that of the previous victims. Going on photographic evidence, the expert had suggested there was a high probability that the Latin carved onto the victims,
In oculis animus habitat
, was made by the same person.

‘How probable?’ May had asked.

‘Hard to say for sure. I could be more precise if I was judging perhaps his handwriting on a piece of paper, but I would say ninety to ninety-five per-cent chance. If the latest, um, inscription, was made by a copycat, for instance, then I would say they are an expert forger.’

Not only an expert forger, but an expert killer. It would take skill, along with an exceptional coldness to keep someone alive whilst you extracted their eyeballs. The inscription on the body would have taken hours. Each letter was always carved with extreme precision.

One anomaly had sprung up from the handwriting expert. He’d said that the writing on the first victim’s torso, Clive Hale, from twenty-two years ago, didn’t match the others. It was possible that it had been his first kill, and he’d been nervous, but the expert was adamant the writing was not the same as the others.

May opened the office door and called for Bradbury. He appeared two minutes later, the hound dog look replaced with a look of professional attention, as if he’d given himself a pep talk in the intervening minutes. She realised she shouldn’t be so hard on him. In retrospect, he’d always wanted more from their time together than she did. She could have, and should have handled it better. She made a mental note to speak to him about it.

‘Jack, do you know anything about the SIO on the Nolan case all those years ago? Julian Hastings?’

Bradbury stood by the desk. ‘Not much more than I’ve read in the file. He was working here until the late nineties. I heard he was a bit of an old school copper. Bit strict. Not hugely talkative. From what I’ve heard the Nolan case fucked him up a bit.’

May looked up from her file for the first time since Bradbury had entered.

‘Sit down, Jack, for Christ’s sake.’

Hastings had retired six years earlier with the rank of Chief Superintendent, having spent his last eight years in Kent. ‘How was he fucked up, as you so eloquently put it?’

‘He became a bit obsessed with it, you know how it is. Rumour has it that was why he left the city. You know he’s a writer now?’ said Bradbury.

‘Yes, I picked up one of his titles today.
Blood Kill
.’ May picked up the book from her desk. A crude paperback, the words BLOOD KILL taking up half of the cover in a thick maroon font.

‘Catchy title. Wonder what it’s about?’

May offered him smile. ‘Read any?’

‘One. His first one. Can’t even remember the name now.’

‘Memorable then?’

‘I’m no expert. You could tell he was a copper though. Had all the procedures down to a tee. And the violence, though there wasn’t enough of that.’

The review didn’t bode well. Hastings had published three books since retiring. All police procedurals.
Blood Kill
was his latest according to the young woman who had sold May the book but according to the inlay page it was published three years ago.