Dead Eyed (13 page)

‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Lambert, through gritted teeth, a dull ache spreading across his head.

‘You’re hurting me,’ said the man, taking short, quick intakes of breath.

‘I’m hurting you?’ Lambert eased the pressure from the man’s neck and let him free. ‘What was that about?’ He rubbed the back of his head thankful not to see any blood on his hand.

The man adjusted his collar and patted down his clothes. ‘You’re asking me? You’re the one who broke in.’

‘I’m police,’ said Lambert.

The man squinted his eyes. ‘Can I see some ID?’

‘I’m not that type of police.’

The man glanced down at the dropped baseball bat. ‘Bullshit. Get the fuck out of here,’ he said, with little conviction.

Lambert picked up the bat to stop it being a distraction. ‘Look, I only wanted to ask some questions and the door was open.’

The man backed away. ‘I was expecting a delivery. Not someone wandering through my club. We’ve had some break-ins before.’

‘Perhaps you should review your security procedures then. I’ll level with you. I’m ex-police. A friend of mine has been murdered. He was last seen here on the night he went missing.’

‘Oh come on,’ said the man.

‘Why would I make up such a story?’

‘Maybe I should wait for the real police to arrive.’

‘Maybe you should. Or maybe you could help me out,’ he said, glancing down at the baseball bat in his hand. ‘The man’s name was Terrence Haydon. You may have read about him in the newspapers.’

The man’s face paled. ‘What, that Souljacker murder?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘He was here on the night he disappeared?’

‘Correct.’

‘Why haven’t the real police come here then?’

‘They don’t know yet.’ Lambert told the man what Roger Haydon had told him.

‘I don’t know many of their names. I don’t know anyone called Langtree or Haydon.’ The man was still on edge, stealing nervous glances at the baseball bat.

‘Do you have any CCTV here?’ asked Lambert.

‘We’ve two cameras. I can access the details on my PC. Not the greatest system I’m afraid.’

‘Show me.’ Lambert followed the man into his office, close enough to persuade him not to risk anything stupid.

The man turned on his PC. ‘The first camera is outside the club. The other takes a sweeping view of inside. It’s a rudimentary system. We only have it for insurance purposes.’

The pictures were fuzzy. Lambert had seen better pictures on mobile phone cameras.

‘Could you download a copy of the files for that evening?’ asked Lambert.

‘I’m not giving you anything,’ said the man.

‘I’m not asking you to delete anything. Just download those two files.’ Lambert placed his left hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed it tight, his fingers reaching the man’s neck.

The man began to squirm. ‘Fine,’ he said, trying to shrug Lambert off. He took a data key from inside a desk drawer. ‘When are you going to tell the police?’ asked the man once he’d downloaded the files.

‘Once I’ve looked through these. It will give you a chance to clean up anything you don’t want them to see. Don’t try to follow me,’ said Lambert, leaving the office.

‘Hey, what was your name again?’ said the man, as he left.

Lambert waved the data key at the man and threw him the baseball bat.

He found a coffee shop not far from the club. Whilst waiting for his laptop to load, he called Sophie’s mobile which went straight to answerphone. They hadn’t talked in over forty-eight hours. Since Chloe’s death, this wasn’t unusual but he wanted to hear her voice. He considered calling her office but she hated receiving personal calls there. He placed the phone back in his pocket. He ordered a black Americano with an extra shot of espresso and accessed The System through his secured Wi-Fi dongle. He studied the Haydon file on HOLMES once more, confirming that there was no mention of the club, and very little on Roger Haydon save for the brief interview conducted by DS Bradbury.

He loaded the files from the club onto the laptop and found a blurry image of a particularly tall man resembling Terrence Haydon entering at eleven-thirty p.m., and exiting some hours later. He couldn’t see anyone with him, but a second man followed him out of the club seconds later. Both videos were next to useless, the images only illuminated by the glare of neon from the club’s sign and the internal lights from the surrounding buildings. The second man kept his back to the camera at all times. It was probably coincidental, but Lambert played it over and over and began to wonder if the man was avoiding the camera on purpose. It was conceivable that the blurred image was the killer. He saved the image and emailed it to May with a brief explanation of how he’d obtained it.

His phone rang, an unidentified number. Possibly his wife calling from work.

‘Lambert.’

‘Michael, it’s Julian Hastings. I wanted to call to apologise for this morning’s débâcle. That DS was a jumped-up shit. I told young DI May that you shouldn’t have been treated that way. Very amateurish.’

Lambert took another sip of coffee before replying. ‘Not your fault, sir,’ he said.

‘That may well be, but I really should have said something when you were there. Anyway, let me make it up to you.’ Hastings’ tone never changed during their interaction, always the same, matter-of-fact monotone.

‘No need, sir.’

‘I am going to give up on stopping you calling me sir, but I would like to share some information with you. I am sure you’re desperate to know what the commotion was about when you left?’

Lambert had been too busy since to have given it much thought.

‘Another body has been found. Exact same MO as Terrence Haydon.’

Lambert hid his surprise. ‘What details can you give me, sir?’

‘Not much at the moment, but I would get to London if I was you.’

‘The body was found in London?’

‘Yes, and this time the victim was a woman.’

Chapter 16

After leaving the safe house, Lance had driven to the hotel in time to see the man they had attacked the previous night, Lambert, leave the car park.

He immediately called in his sighting of Lambert only to be told to sit tight and focus his attention on the other man, Klatzky.

That had been six hours ago. Plenty of time to sit and think about the previous evening’s fuck-up. The two men from last night had been incompetent. That worried him. If he didn’t know better, if it wasn’t impossible, then he would say Campbell was getting sloppy. The two men had not been fit for purpose. He’d sensed it immediately.

Campbell’s reaction was impossible to read. If he’d been upset with Lance then it hadn’t been evident.

Lance had watched the second man, Klatzky, arrive at the hotel late the previous evening, hand in hand with the young student he’d encountered earlier that day. The woman had been too young, and in Lance’s opinion, too pretty for her companion. Both of them had staggered into the hotel foyer.

It had been amusing watching them amble across the street, holding each other up. It was not amusing now, sitting in the car waiting.

The woman had already left. Fifty-eight minutes ago. Her coat pulled high around the back of her head, she’d snuck out of the hotel as if she knew she was being watched. She’d walked directly past the car, her face deathly white. Lance had felt sorry for her then. He recognised the look of remorse and wondered how willing a partner she’d been to the older man, how much drink he’d had to buy for her to stay the night.

Lance had a daughter and an ex-wife, and shuddered to think of either being in such a situation. It was his reason for being here now. He owed Campbell and Campbell knew of their existence. That was enough.

An hour later, Klatzky stumbled onto the street. Dressed in last night’s clothes, he was in an even worse state than the woman. He looked about him like a lost tourist.

Lance left the car and practised his lines as he approached.

‘Mr Klatzky?’ he said, breathing through his mouth to escape the alcoholic fumes emanating from the man.

‘Who are you?’ replied Klatzky. The man was on edge. His whole body shaking, his eyes darting in random directions.

‘Mr Lambert sent me.’

‘Michael? But he’s just had me kicked out of the hotel.’

Lance improvised. ‘That’s why he sent me. To take you back to London.’

Klatzky blinked, absorbing the information.

If he went for his phone, then Lance would have to take action. ‘The car is over there,’ he said, pointing.

Klatzky shrugged and followed him across the road.

‘Please take a seat in the back.’

‘Where’s Michael?’

Lance locked the doors. ‘Care for a drink?’ he asked, producing a hip flask from the glove compartment.

Klatzky snatched the drink away and took a heavy gulp.

‘Keep it,’ said Lance.

He waited for the man to fall asleep before calling it in.

‘Change of plan,’ said Campbell. ‘You need to take him back on your own.’

Lance didn’t protest. ‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘I have made other travel arrangements. Make sure he is secure, and silent,’ said Campbell, hanging up.

Twenty minutes later, Lance pulled the car over and climbed into the back seat. ‘Sorry, buddy,’ he said, cuffing Klatzky’s hands behind him and switching off the man’s mobile phone. He sealed his mouth shut with perforated tape, and laid the sleeping figure into the recovery position.

Chapter 17

Thirty minutes into the journey May realised she’d made another mistake.

The first mistake had been inviting Lambert to the station that morning. She’d called him on a whim after meeting with Hastings who’d appeared at the station an hour earlier than planned. She’d wanted to see if Lambert could get anything out of the retired policeman who was proving at best elusive. Instead the conversation had unravelled as they discussed Klatzky. She could understand Lambert’s reaction and would have reprimanded Bradbury had it not been for the latest development.

Her second mistake had been asking Hastings to accompany her on the journey to London. The news had come through that there had been another Souljacker victim. An incident team had been set up in London, and the SIO, DCI Nielson, had naturally contacted her once the similarities had been discovered. May had instructed Bradbury to stay and head the case during her absence.

Hastings had hardly said a word since they’d set off, following a pattern he’d set earlier that morning. She’d heard more from him in the brief time Lambert had appeared at the station than the rest of the morning combined.

Worse still, she hadn’t learnt anything more from him about the previous Souljacker murders she couldn’t have read in the file. His answers to her questions were monosyllabic, bordering on avoidant. She’d invited him to London because she thought he may have had some interesting thoughts on the new victim, and DCI Nielson had made the suggestion.

The body of Sandra Hopkins had been found earlier that morning in a ground-floor flat in Sydenham, southeast London. The address was displayed on May’s satnav system.

‘Is that near to where you live, sir?’ she asked Hastings.

‘Right sort of area. Fifteen, twenty miles away.’

‘What do you know about the place?’

‘Sydenham ? Nothing much. Mixed, like most of London. It’s had its problems. Good transport links with Central London.’

May sighed inwardly. ‘What do you think about this change of victim?’

Hastings sat stiff-backed, his body pushed back against his seat. ‘I’ve been running it through my mind since we left Bristol. It doesn’t make any sense to me. All the previous Souljacker victims were male, aged twenty to thirty, and all the bodies had been found in south west England. This latest victim was a forty-two year old woman and her body is in London. Doesn’t ring true to me. I’ll be interested to see the victim.’

‘From the preliminary reports I received from London the MO was identical,’ said May.

Hastings grunted. ‘If it’s him, why a woman? Why now?’

May sensed the man’s frustration, knowing he’d been tracking the Souljacker since the first killings all those years ago. ‘I think it could possibly be a good thing,’ she said.

Hastings sneered.

‘I think he wants to get caught. There’s a link between two of the victims, and now days later he kills a woman.’

Hastings didn’t respond. He sat motionless, staring ahead through the windscreen.

May continued, undeterred, thinking aloud. ‘My guess is this killing is personal. If so, we may find a motive. I would be surprised if there is not something that links this woman, Sandra Hopkins, with either one or both of Haydon and Nolan, and if not them one of the older victims.’

‘Quite a leap, Inspector. Let’s hope you’re right.’

The drive continued in silence, broken only by Hastings’ laboured breathing.

‘I hope we didn’t cause you any embarrassment this morning,’ said May, for something to say.

‘How would I be embarrassed?’

‘With what happened with Michael Lambert. In retrospect I don’t think it was handled very well. Particularly not by DS Bradbury.’

‘I agree. You need to take more control of your officers.’

May ignored the slight. ‘You seemed to get on well with Lambert?’

Hastings turned to look at her, his face a mask devoid of emotion. What would he think if he knew she’d been out for dinner last night with Lambert? Her own feelings about it were jumbled. The evening had been a continuation of their lunchtime meeting. She’d enjoyed Lambert’s company, and only a small percentage of the time had been spent discussing the case.

‘I’ve known Michael on and off since that first time during the Nolan case.’

‘What was he like back then?’ asked May.

‘You could tell he was sharp straight off the bat. He was shaken up. They all were. But even then I recognised he had an eye for detail. Meticulous. He recalled things none of the others did. The exact detail of what Nolan had been wearing the last night they’d seen him. Little things about the room. Even what he’d seen of the corpse when he’d broken the door down. I don’t know if you’d call it a photographic memory, but he remembered the Latin inscription. The exact position of the body on the floor.’