Dead Eyed (12 page)

Lambert knocked on the door but there was no answer, the faded patterned curtains behind the front window drawn shut. Lambert knocked again, harder this time. As he did so he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

‘What do you want?’

Lambert turned. Before him stood a young man, possibly in his late teens. He had the bulk of a rugby player and the eyes of someone very much older. He held a clear plastic bag which contained two large bottles of White Lightning Cider. His body swayed as he stood staring at Lambert. ‘What do you want?’ he repeated, his voice slurred.

‘I’m here to see Mr Haydon.’

‘He’s not in,’ said the man, who stood poised, his knees bent as if about to pounce.

‘And you are?’ asked Lambert.

‘Who am I? Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m a friend of Terrence, Mr Haydon’s son.’

The boy relaxed his posture. ‘Terrence is dead,’ he said, seemingly confused by the exchange.

‘I know. I’ve come to pay my condolences.’

‘Wait there,’ said the boy. He opened the door and went inside. Lambert waited as, for the second time that day, someone slammed a door shut in his face.

Lambert waited five minutes before knocking again. The boy had been so out of it that it was possible he’d forgotten their exchange by the time he’d slammed the door shut. Lambert’s patience was running out. He knocked for the last time and began counting to sixty.

He reached fifty-nine and was about to force the door when it was opened. The boy stood in the doorway, a glass of clear cider in one hand, the other jammed across the door frame as a barrier. ‘What did you say your name was again?’ he slurred.

‘Michael Lambert. I was a friend of Terrence at University.’

The boy looked him up and down then moved aside to let him through. The house was ripe with body odour. A dimly lit hallway led to the cramped interior of what Lambert presumed was the living room. The room could have come straight out of the 1970s. Everything was tinged with brown. The curtains were pulled shut, with only a small lamp on the corner table giving the room any illumination. On a tattered cloth sofa sat an elderly man wearing boxer shorts and a stained vest. Like the boy, he drank cider from a pint glass.

‘Mr Haydon?’ asked Lambert.

‘Depends who’s asking.’ The man’s voice surprised Lambert; a booming Welsh accent, lyrical and powerful, coming from the small-framed man.

Lambert explained his connection to Terrence Haydon once more.

‘Okay, I’ll bite for now. Take a seat. Would you like a drink?’

The teenager stood in the hallway staring at Lambert. His relationship to the elderly man was not clear.

‘I’m okay,’ said Lambert, ‘thank you.’

‘Take a seat then. You don’t look like someone who’d be a friend of Terrence. How did you know him?’ began the father, gulping at the cider.

‘We weren’t that close. He lived on the floor above me at University. One of my friends told me the terrible news, and I wanted to pay my respects.’

‘Really, is that so?’ said Haydon, glancing over at the boy.

As Lambert’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he took in the sparsely decorated room. To his right stood a mahogany sideboard decorated with ashtrays brimming with half-finished cigarettes. Opposite him a bookshelf doubled up as a makeshift drinks cabinet. Whiskey the drink of choice.

Roger Haydon leant forward and refilled his glass from the plastic bottle. His baggy skin hung from his frail frame. His left arm was decorated with a tattoo of a faded blue rose. A long, pronounced vein dissected his meagre bicep muscle. From his seated position, Lambert couldn’t see any sign of drug abuse. The man and boy were chronic alcoholics but nothing more. DS Bradbury had interviewed Roger Haydon and had ruled him out as a suspect. Lambert agreed with the assessment but sensed Bradbury had missed something. He remembered Sandra Vernon’s visceral reaction when he’d mentioned her ex-husband’s name and wanted to know more.

‘You say you’ve come to pay your respects? Surely if you knew Terrence you knew that he wasn’t my number one fan.’

‘Well, sort of, sir, but I’m a father. I know it is something I would appreciate.’

‘You’ve visited his mum?’

‘Yes, I saw her yesterday.’

The boy refilled Haydon’s drink and sat next to the man, his red eyes never leaving Lambert’s. ‘Then you would have seen what she’s like?’ he said.

‘She mentioned that you didn’t get to see Terrence much, Mr Haydon.’

‘That would be right,’ said the boy.

Haydon put his hand on the boy’s knee.

‘She poisoned him against Roger,’ the boy said.

‘Poisoned him how?’

Haydon drank his glass in two large gulps. ‘Her and her bloody church.’

‘Religion was important to Terrence? I know he studied theology at University,’ said Lambert.

‘There’s nothing theological about what her group did. All they preached was hatred.’

‘Preached?’ asked Lambert.

‘I’m not talking about whatever church she is with now. I’m talking about the church she used to go to when Terrence was a child. We lived in South Wales. Sandra followed the boy to Bristol when he moved to University.’

Lambert kept quiet. His experience in such situations was to remain silent, and allow the information to come out.

‘You don’t have to say anything, Roger,’ said the teenager.

‘Aw, come on,’ said Haydon. ‘This man’s come all the way to pay his condolences. He should know the full story.’

He refilled his glass, and leant forward. ‘We should never have married, but in those days, and I don’t want to sound like some stupid old man, but in those days it was the done thing. I knew she went to church, which wasn’t so unusual then. Are you a religious man, Mr Lambert?’ asked Haydon, changing tack, as if concerned he was insulting Lambert in some way.

‘No, no,’ said Lambert.

‘Well, I don’t know about all of them,’ continued Haydon, ‘but her group, nutcases one and all.’

The boy laughed, and Lambert joined in.

‘Of course we should never have done it, but then Terrence came along, which was a wonderful thing. But then I was stuck, Mr Lambert. It’s a cliché, but I was stuck in a lie.’ The man drank again, his hand shaking.

‘He’s gay,’ said the boy, as if Lambert needed clarification.

Haydon laughed this time. ‘I think Mr Lambert’s understands that, Thomas, but thank you anyway.’

The boy’s acne-pitted skin glowed red with embarrassment. Haydon placed his hand on the boy’s arm. ‘I would have lived with the lie, as well, for Terrence’s sake, but she found out. I could have been a mass murderer and been treated with more compassion. As far as she was concerned, I was evil incarnate.’

‘And she made Terrence feel the same way?’ asked Lambert.

The young man held Haydon’s hand as he began to cry. Lambert wished he hadn’t been there under false pretences but knew what was being said could be relevant.

‘There was one more thing,’ said Haydon, dragging the back of his nicotine-stained hand across his eyes.

‘Don’t,’ urged the boy.

Lambert waited. The teenager, Thomas, was almost as agitated as Haydon. The two of them were an odd pair, sitting together on the sofa, drinking their morning cider, at least forty years between them.

‘You don’t have to tell him anything,’ urged Thomas.

Haydon drained his glass, the younger man dutifully refilling it.

‘When Terrence was seven, and Sandra had heard the truth about me, she wanted me to leave the house. At first I refused to go. It was not for my sake. We were both young and had no experience but even then I knew she was a horrible mother. She was bringing Terrence up in the way of her church and there was nothing I could do about it. When I refused to leave, she threatened me.’

‘What with?’

‘She said that she would tell the authorities I had…’ He moved his head from side to side, the words seemingly hard to say. ‘She said she would tell the authorities that I touched Terrence.’ The last words came out as a tortured squeak.

Haydon’s arm trembled, the tattoo of the blue rose dancing on his skin. Thomas leant over and placed his hand on the man’s wrist. ‘That’s enough,’ he urged.

‘It was a simple ultimatum, Mr Lambert. She had the backing of her church. She made me doubt myself, and to my eternal shame, I fell for it.’

‘You agreed to leave?’

‘Not only to leave, but never to see them again. You don’t understand, I was a labourer at the time. It was a very small community. Only her and that damn church knew about me. That alone would have been an end to me. With the evil accusations she was suggesting, I would have feared for my life. And ultimately, although it was a very selfish act, I thought it would be better for Terrence.’

‘You see, there is no depth to that woman’s darkness,’ said Thomas, patting Haydon’s arm.

‘Can I use your bathroom?’ asked Lambert.

The younger man nodded not looking in Lambert’s direction.

The rest of the house was in a state of decay. Strips of yellowing wallpaper fell from the walls. The carpets were threadbare, decorated with numerous stains. Lambert crept upstairs and peered into the rooms. The upper floor was low-ceilinged. It contained two bedrooms, each with a double bed, and a small unkempt bathroom. Random items of junk cluttered the place. The second bedroom looked as if it belonged to the teenage boy. A couple of posters hung on the drab walls, and a small weights bench sat in one corner. On the sideboard Lambert riffled through a number of old tabloid newspapers, and came across a plastic wallet. He found a driver’s licence. The boy’s name was Thomas Langtree. According to the licence he was twenty-one years of age. Lambert replaced a couple of bank cards in the wallet and a crumpled five pound note. Nothing else in the room suggested Thomas was a permanent fixture. Lambert placed the wallet back where he’d found it.

He turned to leave but the figure of Thomas Langtree covered the exit.

‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ asked Langtree, rigid with tension.

‘I got lost.’

‘You got lost? There are only three rooms up here.’

Lambert held out his hands in mock surrender. ‘What’s the deal here?’ he asked.

‘What’s it to you?’ replied Langtree, not moving from the doorway.

‘Curious, that’s all.’

‘It’s none of your business. We look after each other, that’s all.’

‘What about your parents?’

The question triggered a response. The boy’s lips trembled. He assessed Lambert, deciding what his chances would be in a confrontation. ‘I think you should leave,’ he slurred.

Lambert brushed past him as he left the room, the boy’s skin rank with body odour and alcohol. Lambert walked downstairs and returned to the living room, Langtree close behind.

‘Before I go, Mr Haydon. Could you tell me when you last saw Terrence?’

‘You’re not really his friend, are you?’ growled the older man. ‘What are you? Police?’

‘I haven’t lied to you, Mr Haydon. I did know your son at University. We weren’t exactly the closest of friends. He was an acquaintance and I want to find out what happened to him.’

The two-litre bottle of cider was nearly empty. The old man drank what was left in his glass. ‘Tell him, Thomas,’ he instructed.

‘Oh come on. He’s snooping.’

‘Just tell him.’

The boy hesitated. ‘I saw him on the night he went missing,’ he said, eventually.

‘Where?’ asked Lambert

‘I saw him going into a club in Bristol. I hadn’t seen him in there before. I didn’t realise it was his scene.’

‘Have you told the police this?’

‘The police don’t know Thomas lives here. I decided not to tell them,’ said Haydon. ‘Now I think I may have made a mistake.’

‘It was a gay club,’ said Thomas.

‘How well did you know Terrence?’ Lambert asked Langtree.

‘I didn’t know him to speak to, but Roger has photos. I recognised him from them. I’ve seen him out and about now and then.’

‘Was he alone?’

‘I didn’t go in once I saw him enter. I think he was on his own.’ Langtree gave Lambert the name and address of the club.

‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’ Lambert asked before leaving.

Haydon closed his eyes as if disgusted with himself. ‘I didn’t want his mother finding out.’

Chapter 15

Lambert was back in Bristol within thirty minutes. It was hard to completely accept Roger Haydon’s story. He checked through the HOLMES entry once more. Bradbury’s report didn’t mention Thomas Langtree, or Terrence entering the nightclub on the night of his disappearance. The anger he’d felt at Bradbury’s action towards him at the station intensified. His ineptness could have cost dearly.

Lambert parked the hire car. The club was situated off the centre beneath a footbridge. Lambert walked down a darkened lane and stood outside the club. A small gold-plated sign stated that the club opened at ten p.m. Thursday to Sunday. It was only midday and the front doors leading to the club were locked. He knew he should really inform May about his discovery but she could wait. He was disappointed with her for the crude line of questioning at the station that morning.

Lambert found a second door to the side of the building. He turned the handle, and was surprised when it opened. He walked past a shabby glass-fronted booth, and down a winding staircase which led to the cavernous space of the club. Whatever magic the place held when filled with people, music, and lights, was missing now. In the dimness all Lambert could see was a vacant space, and mirrored walls. He tried to picture Terrence Haydon in such a place but it was impossible to do in the quiet surroundings.

He called out, his voice echoing in the space. He moved across the dance floor, and opened the hatch at the end of one of the bars. A small archway led to a low-ceilinged hallway. Lambert rounded the corner and to his right saw a glass-panel door with the word ‘Office’ stencilled on it. He was about to turn the door handle when something hard was struck against the back of his head.

His body tensed. Thankfully, the blow was poorly aimed. Lambert staggered but managed to keep his feet. He saw the second blow arrive through the mirrored doorframe and managed to dodge the full force of the impact, his left shoulder taking the brunt. He grabbed the assailant’s arm, pushing his elbow into his body. A miniature silver baseball fell from the man’s hand. Lambert swung around and pushed the assailant against the office door, his right arm thrust under the man’s chin.