Dead Eyed (9 page)

She tried on a number of dresses before finding the perfect balance, a standard long-sleeve black dress which stretched below her knees. She scrubbed up well in the mirror but didn’t want Lambert to get the wrong idea.

She checked her email before leaving and was surprised to see an email titled:

Why did you ignore me?

At first she thought it was a joke but then she read the name of the sender, Sean Laws. She’d thought she’d imagined it, but it must have been him she’d seen on the way to the hospital. He hadn’t waved, so she hadn’t ignored him. She opened the email.

Hi Sarah, Only joking. I don’t know if you saw me but I spotted you out and about today. I’m in Bristol for a few days on work. I didn’t want to disrupt you. You looked so beautiful, walking along. It was really good to see you again. Maybe if you’ve time we could meet up for a chat?

He signed the email Sean with a solitary kiss and his phone number.

May slammed her laptop shut, her hands shaking. She had an absurd impulse to run down the stairs and tell her dad. Despite his age, she knew he would grab his coat and start scouring the city until he found Sean.

Sean Laws, the ex-boyfriend she’d once threatened to take to court.

Chapter 10

Lambert spotted the car two minutes after leaving the hotel. A silver Mercedes, this year’s plates, too grandiose to be police. Through the blacked out windows, he made out the vague silhouetted figure of the driver. He made a mental note of the number plate and took the short walk up Park Street to the restaurant, stopping occasionally to see if the car had followed him.

Twenty minutes early, he took a seat and ordered a cold bottle of lager as he waited for Sarah May to arrive. He’d left Klatzky at the hotel bar holding court with the four students from this morning, his concerns about the photos temporarily washed away.

Sarah May arrived at exactly eight o’clock. Dressed in a figure-hugging black dress, she carried a small handbag. Her hair hung loose on her shoulders, and Lambert wished he’d made more of an effort with his own appearance. He rose from his seat and offered his hand. She shook it, ignoring his awkwardness, her manner half-professional, half-cordial.

After ordering drinks, Lambert questioned May about her career. She described a meteoritic rise through the ranks that, to some extent, mirrored Lambert’s progress. She talked about her colleagues and some of the issues she faced as a woman in the force.

It began to feel like a date until May dashed that notion during the main course.

‘Now, Michael,’ she said, her tone snapping from casual to business-like. ‘I believe I told you not to follow your own investigation.’

Lambert straightened up in his chair. ‘You’re talking about my meeting with Sandra Vernon?’

‘Yes.’

His eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘You’re not having me followed are you, DI May?’

May blinked, her mouth curling into the slightest of smiles. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have resources for such frivolous behaviour. But I thought if you were the interfering type, and I thought that perhaps you were, your first port of call would be with Miss Vernon.’

He couldn’t tell if she was playing with him or if her annoyance was genuine. ‘You spoke to her today?’ asked Lambert.

‘After you visited her house.’

Lambert drank long from his glass of red wine, enjoying May’s scrutiny. Clearly he was being tested. ‘I was paying my condolences.’

‘That’s right. And the questions about Haydon’s father?’

Lambert laughed. ‘I wanted to pay my condolences to him as well.’

May leant in. ‘We’ve spoken to Mr Haydon. There’s nothing much to be gained from him. From the report I was given, he’s just a sad, washed up alcoholic.’

‘It was only condolences,’ said Lambert.

May lowered her voice. ‘Because you and Haydon were so close? Look, I understand the experience you can bring to the case. I’d be happy to share information with you but you must understand the complications that arise from you being involved. You’ve really pissed off Miss Vernon. It could damage our investigations.’

Lambert lifted his glass again and placed it back down without taking a drink. He’d been waiting for May to speak her mind. How the next few minutes went could possibly define their relationship. ‘I do appreciate that,’ he said. There was little the DI could do about his involvement and she probably understood that as well as he did, but he didn’t want to upset her at this stage. ‘I’ll keep a low profile for the time being,’ he conceded.

‘Thank you,’ said May.

They sat in silence for a time, Lambert sneaking the odd glance at his companion. He thought about his former colleagues, how rarely he had enjoyed a strong professional relationship with someone. He held onto his wine glass, went to speak and stopped.

‘What did you think of Miss Vernon?’ asked May, choosing to rescue him from his inaction.

Lambert sat back, decided he would trust May for the time being. ‘I would say eccentric if I was being polite.’

‘And if you weren’t being polite?’

Lambert thought about the coldness he’d sense from the woman, the hatred she’d vocalised about her ex-husband. ‘I couldn’t possibly say. Did you speak to her about her Terrence’s father?’

‘Not in great detail.’

‘Her reaction was over the top to say the least. I think you need to dig deeper, there’s something she’s holding back.’

‘Okay. I’ll question her again. You think the father is involved?’

‘Not directly.’ As this was a serial case it was unlikely the killer was a family member. ‘But there is definitely something she is not sharing. How about you, where are you on the case?’

‘You’ll know about the DNA found at the scene? No match on the databases, unfortunately. Our main area of investigation is the link between Haydon and Nolan.’

‘Makes sense. And the older cases?’ he asked, remembering what he’d read on HOLMES.

May tilted her head back. She didn’t answer immediately. Lambert sensed she was debating whether or not to share the information with him. ‘We’re looking at the older cases one by one. As you know, it’s nearly twenty years since the last murder. It’s possible something was overlooked in the past, or that there is a link we can tie in with Terrence Haydon.’

‘Anything significant so far?’

‘Not for me. There is a vague theory about churches at the moment. A high proportion of the victims were affiliated one way or another to a church. It might be significant but I can’t see how at the moment.’

‘Billy wasn’t religious,’ said Lambert, pleased that May was sharing the information even though he already knew it.

‘There you go. I was going to ask, have you ever done any cold case work on this over the years? I’m sure it must have been tempting.’

Lambert shifted in his seat. ‘I’ve tried to put it behind me. You can let these things define you if you’re not careful,’ he said, thinking that Billy’s death would always be a part of him even if he ever caught whoever was responsible.

After dinner, May walked him back to his hotel. She quizzed him again about the blank entries in his work record, the inquiry light-hearted.

‘There’s no great mystery.’ He’d drunk too much wine, her company relaxing him.

‘Who said anything about a mystery? Don’t hype yourself up.’ She gently shoulder-charged him, forcing him to stumble.

‘You’re quite impressive, DI May. I can never tell for sure if I’m being interrogated or not. Such confusion is not normal for me.’

‘I’m off the clock now,’ she said, as they reached the hotel entrance. She turned to him, her left cheek curling slightly into a smile: a beautiful and stark contrast to the snarl he’d seen earlier that day on Sandra Vernon’s face. He wondered what would happen if he leant in to kiss her, and took a step backwards realising he’d drunk even more than he’d imagined.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ said May, saving him the embarrassment. She offered her hand which he shook savouring the warm softness of her flesh.

He said goodbye and retreated to the hotel, a sudden sense of fatigue spreading through him. He spotted Klatzky in the hotel bar, his arms wrapped around the black-haired student from the morning. They were alone, two wine bottles on the table before them. Lambert tried not to think about how much it would be costing. He retreated upstairs before either of them saw him.

Back in his hotel room, he checked his email and phone messages. Sophie had left a voicemail asking when he would be home. She would be asleep now so he sent her a text. Restless, he logged into The System. As he was using the hotel’s Wi-Fi, he had to pass through a number of extra security measures before gaining access.

He checked Sarah May’s file first, verifying what he’d been told over dinner. He checked for updates on HOLMES, and saw the name of his ex-girlfriend, Siobhan Callahan. May had met her earlier that day, not long after speaking to him. DI May moved fast and hadn’t shared as much with him as he’d thought. He tried to picture what Siobhan would look like now. She’d been such a slight thing, wild, spikey hair, a tattoo on her shoulder. He couldn’t imagine her now, wasn’t sure he wanted to know how time had changed her.

He studied the rest of the Haydon file. He knew most of the document by heart now, but began reading from the start again. He always worked this way. The repetition helped him process the information, his mind working on the finer details he may have initially missed. Instead of merely scanning, he studied each page of the file, analysing the structure and each individual word of the report until it stopped making sense.

He switched off the light and lay on the bed listening to the hum of the air conditioning circling the room. His head was overrun with images. Sleep was elusive, the wine he’d drunk keeping him awake. Alone in the darkness, his thoughts always returned to his daughter, Chloe. During the day he tried to keep busy, distracting himself with the mundane activities of life. But she never totally left him. She lingered in the faces of strangers, her voice whispered in their conversations. At night he had no way of deflecting her. He tried to turn his thoughts to the case, but however hard he concentrated they spiralled back to Chloe. His throat constricted as he fought back tears. He snapped the light back on and left the room, in time to see Simon Klatzky, his arm draped across his young student friend, trying to open the door to his hotel room. Lambert stepped back and took the opposite route around the floor towards the lift.

It was eleven-thirty. Most of the city’s bars had kicked out. The day’s heat, retained by the tall city buildings, hung in the air. Lambert walked down the hill to the waterfront. He passed a group of leering men, and jaded women unsteady in their high heels. The river smelt dank and sulphurous. He crossed the road towards a large water feature which spewed jets of regurgitated water into the air. Youngsters sat on concrete walls and wooden benches smoking and nursing cans of energy drink.

As he headed out of the centre, he spotted the same silver Mercedes from earlier that evening, parked on a side street. He walked up Gloucester Road, trying to draw the car out. The area had improved since he’d been a student. Coffee shops, trendy bars and a multitude of restaurants lined the street. Yet, it still retained that air of darkness he’d always associated with the place, as if the bulbs in the street lamps were a few watts dimmer.

A group of six men in their early to mid-twenties passed him as he rounded a corner. One of their number barged into him, his shoulder forcibly jarring Lambert’s left arm. Lambert slowed down but the group didn’t stop. The man had probably been too drunk to even realise he’d made contact.

The car reappeared, two hundred yards in the distance. Lambert took a side street, and upped his pace along streets he didn’t recognise. He found himself in the St Pauls area. Most of his previous fear about the region had been the result of ignorance. At University, the talk at the student bar had been about gangs of locals who would attack any passing student, legends of smashed bottles and knife wounds. The St Pauls riots had occurred years before Lambert joined the University. It was decades ago now. In comparison to the streets and the estates he had worked on as a beat cop in London, this place was a wonderland populated by reasonably well-maintained Victorian houses, and the occasional new build.

The car still followed. Lambert knew he’d taken a risk leaving the main road. He continued walking until he came to a dimly lit subway which led to the drab grey buildings of the Frenton estate. Three youths guarded the entrance to the subway, all three were dressed in black hoodies and sat atop BMX bikes. Lambert put their ages somewhere between fourteen and sixteen. The youths glared at Lambert but said nothing as he walked past them, his eyes focused ahead. The subway tunnel smelt of stale urine and something akin to fungus. Damaged light bulbs flickered on the ceiling, highlighting images of crudely sprayed graffiti. At the other end of the tunnel were three almost identical youths. One of them stopped him.

‘All right?’ said the youth, in a thick West Country drawl.

Lambert lowered his head a touch. The boy hesitated and let him pass. Three highrise buildings, grey and featureless, were the centrepiece of the estate. Light shone out from the buildings, the occasional blank face looking down on him.

He moved through the complex, the stench of rubbish bins billowing out from building one. Bin bags were piled high next to the entry for the stairwell. From one of the lower levels came the powerful thump of some form of dance music. To Lambert’s ears the bass was out of sync. The noise vibrated, shaking the windows. As he walked into the courtyard area, the stench of the dustbins was replaced by the aroma of something more exotic. Two men followed him into the poorly lit area.

They were both over six foot tall. The shorter of the two was black, dressed in dirty jeans and a navy blue hoody. The taller man was Mediterranean, possible Italian. He had thick broad shoulders and a fake diamond stud in his ear.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ said the black man.

Lambert stared them down. He tried not to move his head as he calculated the different exit points. He glanced up to see if anyone was watching from the towers. His chosen exit was at two o’clock on the north-east corner. It ran between building one and two. A lane led back onto the street where he could disappear amongst the shadows.