Dead Lucky (26 page)

‘Are you kidding me?’

Wilkinson went silent. ‘DC Devlin, sir.’

‘Devlin called you?’

‘Sir, I don’t know what this is all about. Devlin called. We went through all the necessary checks. I called the two numbers I was given and received confirmation. I considered calling you but I didn’t want to waste your time.’

Lambert released his grip on the phone. Was it possible that the calls between Wilkinson and the office had somehow been hacked? ‘What did you do with Sackville?’

‘We returned him home as per his instructions. He didn’t enter the building but headed straight for the pub. I was hardly in a position to argue with him.’

The Watcher was playing games with him. ‘After you hang up, take your phone to your station where it will be collected. I then want you to return to the safe house, and secure the building. I will be sending a team over.’

Lambert hung up. There was no response from Devlin so he called Tillman directly and explained the situation.

‘I’ll pick the phone up personally and get a tech team over now to check the house. You actually think the killer has orchestrated this? You know the amount of insight and knowledge needed to achieve that?’

It was too late to tell Tillman now about the calls. ‘Someone is interfering.’

‘Sackville’s safe?’

‘Sleeping it off in the cell.’

‘I’ll arrange another safe house. We’ll take no chances this time.’

Greig was waiting for him outside the interview room. ‘We’ve woken Sackville for you. He’s a bit groggy, poor bastard. Who can blame him? Says that Robinson was doing his wife?’

‘It seems so.’

‘Fucker deserves it then. I guess that’s why he doesn’t want to press charges. Would rather get a beating than have his name tarnished.’

‘His name is tarnished,’ said Lambert, following Greig to the holding cell.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Sackville, as he entered the room. He was sitting with his back to the stone wall, hugging a blanket. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes sunken and drawn.

Lambert glared at the man. ‘Leave me with him,’ he said to Greig.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time, but Robinson had it coming.’

Lambert sat down, the steel block cold and unforgiving. ‘I don’t care about that, Eustace. Were you not surprised that we let you go?’

Sackville squinted his eyes. ‘A little bit. I know what budgets are like with you lot, though, and I presumed I wasn’t in any real danger. At least, not in your opinion. I thought you may have made an appearance. Why do you ask that?’

‘Nothing. There’s been a few developments since the last time we spoke. You might be able to help.’

Sackville took a drink from a beaker of water. ‘Hangover’s kicking in. How’s Robinson?’

‘Not pressing charges.’

‘That’s good of him,’ said Sackville, becoming animated, pushing himself off the metal bed before collapsing back down.

‘Forget him, Eustace. That’s all done now. Going back to DI Lennox. Do you remember one of his colleagues, would have been a DC called Lindsay?’

Sackville considered for a moment. ‘Vaguely. He left the force I believe. We stopped tracking Lennox’s cases once Trev took that beating. We only reported his so-called successes.’ He went to take another sip of water but the cup was empty. ‘What’s this about, Michael?’

‘Lindsay remembers you, Eustace. And Laura Dempsey remembers DI Lennox.’

Sackville’s face visibly drained of colour. ‘Can you get me some more water?’ he asked, his hands shaking.

Lambert knocked on the cell and made the request to the uniformed guard.

‘How did she know him?’

‘Can’t you tell me, Eustace?’

Sackville shook his head. ‘Listen, I’m too old, and too hungover for these games. I told you, I’ve never met Dempsey before. At least, I don’t recall meeting her. Tell me the connection.’

The cell door opened and the guard gave Lambert two beakers of water. Sackville downed his cup in one, so Lambert gave him his drink. ‘Laura remembers Lennox visiting her at work.’ He didn’t tell Sackville that he had nothing further, that sharing the information had sent Dempsey into relapse.

Sackville drank the second cup. He was rocking back and forwards. Lambert waited for him to speak, but the man’s mind had wandered. His rocking intensified, his attention focused on the wall opposite. ‘Eustace,’ said Lambert.

Sackville jumped. ‘Sorry, zoned out there.’

‘Laura Dempsey and DI Lennox, Eustace. What’s the connection?’

‘I told you, I’ve never heard of Laura Dempsey.’

‘She used to go by the name of Laura Patchett at the time.’

Sackville shook his head. ‘I presume you’ve gone through my old notes.’

‘Yes.’

‘And no match.’

Lambert raised his voice. ‘No, but that’s irrelevant. Your whole life isn’t in those files, not even your detailed notes. It’s just finished copy in the main.’

Sackville shrugged. ‘I would help you, Michael, if I could. The name is not familiar to me.’

Lambert couldn’t tell if Sackville was lying or not. He doubted if the journalist knew himself. ‘Laura Dempsey remembered Lennox visiting the St Matthew’s where she used to work in her early twenties.’

‘That’s it?’

‘It caused quite a reaction in her.’ He pictured her pale face, the vomit on her bedclothes, the sight of Dr Hughes ending the interview.

‘Put me out of misery, Lambert. Where did she work?’

‘She used to work at St Matthew’s children home.’

It would have been easy to have missed the subtle change in Sackville’s face. Lambert spotted the narrowing of the eyes, the slight twitch of his mouth. ‘You know the place?’

Sackville scratched his thigh, and straightened his back in attention. It was as if his hangover had evaporated in an instant. ‘I remember the place, though I don’t remember any Laura Dempsey, or Patchett. What was she, the nurse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Never managed to speak to the nurse. Inexperience, I guess.’

‘What are you talking about, Eustace?’

‘It was going to be my first exclusive. I’d received an anonymous tip. I think it was police but I’ll never know.’

Lambert stood, his body language suggesting that Sackville get to the point.

‘Okay, okay. There were reports that some of the teenage girls at the home were being used.’

‘Used?’

Sackville sighed, his whole body shaking. ‘Prostitution. Someone was running the girls out of the home. Everyone was turning a blind eye. I believe Lennox came to the home and questioned the staff but didn’t bother continuing the investigation.’

‘And you?’

Tears came before words. They dribbled down Sackville’s stubble pitted cheeks. ‘I had a report of sorts. I even spoke to some of the poor kids.’

‘Why wasn’t it published?’

Every inch of the journalist was shaking. ‘I was warned off and at the time I was too much of a coward to pursue things.’

‘Who warned you off, Eustace?’

Sackville went rigid. He looked up at Lambert for the first time in the last few minutes. ‘Blake. Curtis Blake.’

Chapter 40

Lambert clutched his head in his hands. ‘Blake?’

Sackville nodded.

‘He was running a prostitution ring out of that home?’

‘It was part of his operation, I’m sure of it.’

Lambert sat back down. No wonder Laura Dempsey had such a visceral reaction to his questioning. ‘How did Blake stop you publishing the story?’

Sackville stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. He removed it and turned his back to Lambert. The flesh of his back was blotchy and discoloured, a number of incision marks crisscrossed his skin, the rest of the flesh on his back was burn tissue.

‘Jesus, I’m sorry,’ said Lambert.

Sackville dressed. ‘I’ve watched that man over the years. It’s the ruthless ones who succeed. That’s why I was making a last attempt at a story on him. I thought I’d nothing left to lose.’

‘You have the story anywhere?’

‘I have another file,’ said Sackville, his eyes drooping. ‘You think Blake’s after that? You think…’

‘I don’t know what to think at the moment. Where’s the file, Eustace?’

Sackville told him where he’d hidden the file at his house.

‘You’re going back into protective custody.’

Wilkinson was waiting for him outside the room with Greig. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he began, before Lambert stopped him.

‘He’s not to leave your sight, now, and he needs to be moved to a different house.’ Lambert took out his card and wrote a six digit number on it. ‘Sackville is not to be released unless the code is offered to you. Do not ask for it.’

He left the station and headed straight to Blake’s house. En route, he called Lindsay and left a message telling him about Lennox and the children’s home. It was possible the retired officer knew something about what had happened back then. Next he called Devlin, to confirm he hadn’t given permission for Sackville to be released out of protective care.

‘No, sir,’ said Devlin, sounding worried.

‘Tighten up the security measures,’ said Lambert, not revealing the code he had given to Wilkinson. There would have to be an internal investigation at some point. Somehow, the Watcher had infiltrated the phone system. He hung up and was in Hampstead twenty minutes later.

He didn’t need Harrogate’s permission to speak to Blake, and wasn’t about to ask for it. Lennox, Dempsey, Sackville and Blake were all linked to the home and Blake was the only one not to have suffered yet. He was either somehow responsible, or his family were in danger. He would reserve judgment until he’d spoken to the man.

He parked two streets away, and walked the short distance to Blake’s house. The street was deserted. If Harrogate was hiding, he was doing a good job of it. He rang the doorbell outside the two steel gates, and smiled to the camera knowing he was being watched. ‘DCI Lambert for Mr Blake.’

‘Do you have an appointment, Mr Lambert?’ The voice from inside was familiar. Lambert recognised it as that of Blake’s head of security, Will Atkinson.

‘I don’t have an appointment, but it is in Mr Blake’s best interest if he sees me now. I don’t want to have to return with a warrant.’ Lambert rested his hands on the cold steel gates, which were industrial strength with jagged ends.

Five minutes later, Lambert spotted the suited figure of Will Atkinson walking towards him, flanked by two of his ex-militia henchmen. ‘This is most unorthodox, but Mr Blake will see you,’ said Atkinson, opening the gates. He had a smirk on his face, his two flanking guards stony-faced, their eyes never leaving Lambert’s.

Lambert heard the gate click shut behind him as he walked across the gravel pathway. A petite lady in a tight fitting dress was getting into the back of a black BMW, the door being held opened for her by a driver. As the driver shut the door he glanced over at Lambert, a confused look on his face as he held Lambert’s gaze for a second too long. Lambert continued staring once the driver had diverted his attention to the car’s ignition and steering wheel, taking in as much information as he could. The driver’s lithe body shape, the bald patches on his scalp, the steep contour of his nose and the darkness in his eyes.

‘You coming?’ said Atkinson. The head of security led him to the same foyer as before. ‘Wait there.’

Lambert remained standing, holding Atkinson’s gaze until the man eventually retreated. Preparations for the party were already in full swing. Through the garden doors, Lambert saw a team of men erecting a vast tent in the grounds. If it was a surprise, it was a poorly concealed one.

A hand touched Lambert on the shoulder, applied a sense of pressure before letting go.

‘Sixty, if you must ask,’ said Blake. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise but you can’t invite three hundred people to your house and keep it secret now, can you?’

‘I guess not.’

Blake was wearing jeans and a dark t-shirt, his feet covered only by sandals. ‘You know you’re welcome any time, DCI Lambert. No need for the threats.’

‘Tell your staff that.’

Blake was unsmiling. ‘However, I am busy so if we could get down to the exact purpose of this visit.’

Lambert recognised the tactics. The subtle changes in perspective, welcoming then impatient, vague then specific, all designed to keep the subject off guard and uncomfortable. He’d used it many times in interrogation. ‘Can we go somewhere private?’

Blake rubbed his face, the loose skin on his face stretching and distorting his features. ‘Follow me.’

Blake’s office was as ostentatious as the rest of the house. An oversized antique oak table took centre stage. Blake sat on a racing-green leather armchair behind the desk. Behind him was a gold framed picture of a woman sitting on a bench. The rest of the room was decorated in gold-edged wood.

‘I met with Eustace Sackville again today,’ said Lambert, taking a seat uninvited.

Blake sighed. ‘Must we? Again?’

‘He showed me something I found quite interesting.’

‘Humour me.’

Lambert counted to ten in his head. ‘His back.’

‘His back, you say?’

‘Yes, what’s left of it.’

‘I think we’re having two separate conversations here, DCI Lambert. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do, Mr Blake. But in case you don’t, let me elaborate.’

Blake leant back in his chair, and lifted his legs so his sandals were on the desk.

Lambert told him about Sackville’s investigation into the use of children from St Matthew’s as prostitutes. He withheld the other information, wanting to assess Blake’s reaction.

Blake kept his relaxed pose. He shook his head, a fake look of disappointment on his face. ‘This is twenty, thirty, years ago?’

Lambert didn’t respond.

‘But you do have a police report from this time? There was obviously a complaint, some arrests.’ Blake sat up in his chair, the sarcastic look replaced by a stone-like hardness. ‘No? You mean all you have is some fabricated nonsense from a failed journalist? I have to ask you, why are you fucking wasting my time?’

Lambert ignored the shouting. ‘An officer was called to the home, now that you mention it.’

Blake looked away, muttering to himself.