Dead Lucky (29 page)

‘There’s nothing I should know then? Nothing that will crop up later?’

Kennedy frowned.

‘Of course not. There’s nothing to know. My father is a good policeman. He is honest and respected and has had a successful career. Obviously, he helped me with my application and I imagine it hasn’t hurt my career development being related to him, but that’s where it ends.’

Lambert nodded.

‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Kennedy.

‘We move forward. We need to make some formal record of the killer’s contact with us, in case it’s needed for future records. I’ll list my conversations with him on an encrypted file, you do the same.’

‘Do you think all his conversations with you are a diversionary tactic?’

‘There’s more to it than that, more than just the threat to Sophie,’ said Lambert, beginning to articulate something he’d only half considered before.

‘It wasn’t Blake’s voice I heard.’

‘No.’

‘Voice altering software?’

‘I don’t think so. The voice doesn’t sound computerised. I don’t think it’s Blake who has been calling us.’

‘A proxy?’

‘Possible, especially with all the surveillance Blake has at his disposal. It’s pointless hypothesising at the moment. Let’s process all the files from St Matthew’s and see where that takes us. Let’s find something we can question Laura Dempsey about. For now, let’s deal with Charles Robinson.’

Chapter 46

The change in Robinson’s appearance was dramatic. Shaved, dressed in a tailored suit, he was a different man to the one in his cords and jumper. Giles Lansdowne had arrived and was conferring with Robinson as Lambert entered the interview room. He didn’t look best pleased as Lambert switched on the tape and ran through the preliminaries, making introductions and stating that Robinson was here out of his own free will.

Lansdowne went to protest but Robinson placed his hand on the man’s arm. ‘It’s fine, Giles, let’s get this over and done with.’

Lambert relayed the conversation he’d had at Robinson’s flat. Robinson confirmed everything, despite Lansdowne’s protestations.

‘Mr Robinson, as you agreed, we have searched your premises and have taken in a number of items for examination.’ Devlin was coordinating the search. He had retrieved two leather masks from Robinson’s premises which had been sent for testing.

‘As we discussed in the flat, you withheld some information at the beginning of this investigation. If you have anything else you need to tell us, Charles, you need to do it now. Full co-operation would go a long way at this juncture.’

‘I’ve nothing to hide, Mr Lambert.’

‘You’ve already wasted police time,’ said Kennedy.

‘I beg your pardon, but my client has wasted no time whatsoever,’ said Lansdowne, his face colouring.

‘He told us his relationship with Moira had ended, which is clearly not the case.’

‘He was under no obligation to divulge details about his private affairs.’

It was Kennedy’s turn to be indignant. ‘His private affair with a murder victim?’

‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ said Lambert. He handed Robinson’s colleague a file. ‘Some unpleasant images in there, Charles.’

‘If there is anything of Moira then I can’t look.’

Robinson looked genuinely upset at the prospect, but Lambert was not being put off so easily. ‘Open the file, Charles.’

Robinson looked at Lansdowne, before opening the cover of the file, revealing a picture of Laura Dempsey’s husband. ‘Exactly same MO as Moira, Charles. Keep looking.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Robinson, studying the images of the two Dempsey children.

‘Laura was made to watch all three die, Charles. She was accompanied by a man in a mask.’ As he spoke, Lambert searched for information on Robinson’s face, a hint of recognition, or even a glimpse of pride in his handiwork. All he saw was grief and misery. Lambert turned over the next page to an image of Laura Dempsey. ‘She used to work at a children’s home, St Matthew’s in Dalston. Mean anything to you?’

‘No,’ said Robinson, flicking through a number of photos of the home’s former residents.

Again, Lambert searched for a hint of recognition but came up blank. ‘Do you know Laura Dempsey, Charles?’

‘No.’

‘Really, this is quite enough. I think we are going to end this conversation now,’ said Lansdowne. ‘You are clearly grasping at straws. My client has admitted to an ongoing affair with Mrs Sackville. He has broken no laws, and unless you have something you wish to charge him on, we are leaving.’

Lansdowne stood, but Robinson remained sitting. ‘Look, I apologise if I’ve wasted your time on this. I should have told you about Moira and me. I’ll do anything to help you find who was responsible for killing Moira, but it wasn’t me.’

Lambert had heard such pleas of innocence many times before, but had nothing to hold the man with. ‘I want your client to report to this station once a day,’ he said to Lansdowne.

‘Anything to help,’ said Lansdowne, a humourless smirk spreading across his face.

Lambert spent the rest of the afternoon and evening locked in his office, trawling through the histories of the home’s former residents. It was traumatising work, each child’s life caught by a black and white photo and a snapshot summary of their life. He analysed each file in meticulous detail, reading the meagre details over and over again, looking for a sentence or word that would trigger his attention. It would be so easy to miss, and he’d instructed that each file was read by at least three separate officers to ensure nothing slipped by.

In the incident room, Kennedy had placed five photos of former residents on the board, each photo was of a teenage girl. ‘All have criminal records for soliciting,’ she said to Lambert.

‘At the time or after?’

‘All after. I’ve managed to make contact with one of the girls, Melissa Brady. She lives in Plaistow. I’m meeting with her tonight.’

‘Okay. I’m going to stay here and work on the last box. Do you want Devlin to go with you?’

‘No, I think I should go alone.’

Lambert sat in the canteen, pushing his food around his plate. He called Sophie who confirmed everything was okay in the house, and checked in with the team monitoring the house, and the second team looking after Sackville. He managed a rushed conversation with Sarah May who was working in London. She promised to pop over to his bedsit that evening if she had time.

The sensible thing now would be to return home and get some sleep but he was too restless. He returned to the office and continued searching the case histories. He felt like an intruder on the private pain of hundreds of children.

Jake Lincoln stared back at him, the same sad look as the others. Lambert entered his name and date of birth onto The System and was surprised when three potential hits appeared. Lambert clicked on each of the three files in turn until he found a match. Lincoln lived in Kent and was currently temping as a school caretaker via a recruitment agency. Lambert printed the details and added him to the file. He repeated the process with Seth Grant, now from Putney, and Celeste Rush, now in Dover.

It was painstakingly slow.

A knock on the door tore him from the latest file, Gayle Kimball, who had died twenty-two years ago. He had presumed everyone had left for the evening. ‘Enter.’

‘Sir, may I have a word?’

Lambert turned his attention back to his file. ‘It’s not the best time, Walker.’

‘It’s important, sir.’

‘Unless it has a direct relevance to the case then I don’t have time.’

‘I want to make a complaint, sir. I thought I should speak to you first before I make it official.

‘Sit.’ Lambert placed the file down with a heavy sigh. Kimball would have to wait for the time being. ‘We’ve been here before, Walker.’

‘You heard I’m being transferred?’

‘That’s why you want to make a complaint?’

‘No, I think you should know what the complaint is about.’

The bruising on Walker’s eye had faded to a dirty yellow. ‘My advice hasn’t changed. You would do best to forget about all this, move to another department and get on with your career.’

Walker moved the perfect knot of his tie further towards his top button. ‘It’s abuse of power. I shouldn’t be transferred because of this.’

‘Maybe not, but you’ve got to learn how to play the game. You start causing a fuss now, and it will only be detrimental to your career. Moving might actually be beneficial.’ Lambert wasn’t totally comfortable giving such advice. He didn’t like Walker, but if Tillman was responsible for the black eye, then Walker was right. Lambert didn’t like abuse of power in any form. But worse things happened, and Walker would end up in an untenable position where his fellow officers wouldn’t respect him.

‘Never changes, does it? Old boys’ club.’ Walker leant in towards him, the bitter smell of alcohol drifting towards Lambert.

‘Walker, go home and sort yourself out. If you want to make a formal complaint, come back tomorrow and speak to me sober. I will make sure due process is followed.’

Walker made his unsteady way to the door, which he slammed behind him. Lambert closed his laptop, a collage of fireflies filling his office room. Lambert pushed through the hallucinatory images, and followed the path made by Walker. He managed to reach the door just in time.

He locked himself in the room and fell to the floor asleep.

Chapter 47

Lambert wiped away the line of drool on his chin, his face pushed down on the hard grey carpet of his office. He rubbed his eyes, and pulled himself into a sitting position. He couldn’t go on like this. If he hadn’t managed to lock his office door in time, someone would have found him collapsed in a heap. The hallucinations and black outs were as constant as ever, but now he was back at work he needed to be more mindful of when they were likely to happen, and to make sure he was not at work. If his condition was discovered, medical would link the episodes to the stress of the job, which could confine him to an administrative role. The only person he’d ever told about the hallucinations was Sarah May. Even Sophie didn’t know. Sarah had suggested finding a private doctor, getting checked out anonymously. He promised himself he would do that as soon as the case was finished.

He unlocked his office door. The incident room was desolate, a single neon light illuminating the open space. It was four-thirty a.m. He made his way to the kitchen area, thankful that someone had left the coffee pot on. He poured a cup, wincing at the burnt taste. He tipped the liquid down the sink, and brewed a new pot.

Back in the office, he continued his research on the former occupants of St Matthew’s. It was obsessive, mundane work with no guarantee of success. It summed up much of his life in the force. Most people didn’t understand the reality of his job, the endless hours of research, the administration, the false starts and wrong turns. This was the real work, the foundation which made everything else possible.

Ivy Rickard, died aged twenty-seven. Suicide.

Matthew Larder, currently a police constable residing in Leamington Spa.

Lambert picked up one last file. He would need to return to the flat for a shower and change of clothes, so this would be the last for this morning. Elaine Jacobson. The photo showed the pouty smile of a typical teenage girl. The file was heavier than the majority of the others.

Lambert turned the cover, his hand starting to shake as he viewed the picture on the next page.

Chapter 48

It was rush hour by the time Matilda made the tube journey to Plaistow in east London. She joined the throng of weary commuters returning home, spending the initial part of the journey pushed up against the chest of a suited businessman.

It was a relief to disembark at the station, the still air humid as she made the short walk to the block of flats where Melissa Brady lived.

A man she’d seen on the tube was heading in her direction, a pace or two behind. Her anxiety had been heighted by the revelations from Lambert about his conversations with the Watcher. She had already written out a record of her own conversation with the killer and the subsequent discussion with Lambert. As Lambert had suggested, she’d encrypted the file and loaded it onto a personal flash drive which she carried with her. As she walked, she thought about the Watcher’s apparent ability to be in many places at once, always one step ahead.

She bent down and pretended to adjust the zip on her boot, and waited for the man to pass her. Dressed in casual clothes, Kennedy noticed the man’s retro trainers. She monitored the man’s progress as he continued down the road not once looking back. Her own surveillance training had told her this was irrelevant. If the man was good at what he was doing, he would never look back. If he was part of a team then he would consider his cover blown and would pass the duty onto someone else.

Kennedy scanned the immediate area. A couple, late teens, were walking hand in hand across the road moving in the opposite direction. An elderly woman pushing an old-fashioned pram followed in their wake. Behind her, a new influx of people had just left the tube station and were scattering in various directions.

Deciding she was just being paranoid, she continued. Brady lived in a ground floor apartment, the outside of which was decorated in square slabs of colour and could have easily been misplaced for the exterior of a school. Matilda rang the buzzer. A woman’s voice answered.

‘Hi, is that Melissa Brady?’

‘Yes, come on in.’

The door opened into the brightly lit corridors which reminded Matilda of a budget hotel. She rounded a corner and saw a woman standing in a doorway surveying the corridor with a nervous shake of the head. ‘Come in,’ she whispered.

Matilda entered the dimly lit interior of Melissa Brady’s flat, her hand brushing against the smooth walls. Brady led her into a kitchenette area which doubled as a living room. A flat screen TV hung on one of the white walls, dominating the space and drawing Matilda’s eye. ‘Thanks for taking the time to see me,’ she said, displaying her warrant card.

‘I was a bit shocked to hear from you, to be honest,’ said Melissa, lighting a cigarette. ‘Want one?’