Dead Eyed (18 page)

‘You’ve heard about this eye surgeon in Bristol?’

Bardsley frowned. ‘No.’

Lambert told him about Hastings’ link to Sandra Hopkins, the eye surgeon’s negligence case. Lambert was once again struck by how orchestrated things felt. He was convinced the eye surgeon was a dead end, thought it possible that the Souljacker was deflecting their attention.

‘Fingers crossed there. How’s Hastings keeping? Haven’t seen him in years.’

‘Same old. You worked much with Nielson?’

Bardsley ground his teeth, his eyes widening a touch.

‘I see,’ said Lambert. ‘Anyway, thanks for your time, Josh.’

‘Pleasure. You’ve my number if that brain of yours comes up with anything we may have missed.’ He didn’t get up as Lambert left the café.

Lambert assessed the faces on the train and tube as he returned home. He made a plausible case for each one’s involvement in some form of criminal activity. From London Bridge, he caught the train back to Beckenham. Walking back to his house, he went to call Sophie twice but each time hung up before the phone started ringing.

Whatever Nielson, May and Bardsley were telling him, Lambert was convinced the cases were linked. It had to be the same killer, out of retirement and making up for lost time. Furthermore, he was positive the killer was using accomplices. It was possible this would be his undoing.

He heard the noise as he turned onto his street. A distant ringing sound which crescendoed into a full-blast concert by the time he reached his house.

Somehow, he’d forgotten about Klatzky. A wave of cigarette smoke rushed his eyes as he opened his front door. In the living room, a half-dressed Klatzky drank vodka from a cut glass goblet. ‘Mikey,’ he said, one shaking hand holding a cigarette over Lambert’s record player, the other holding a vintage piece of vinyl as if it was a scrap piece of paper.

In the corner sat another man.

Someone Lambert hadn’t seen in fifteen years.

Chapter 23

By the time May reached Bristol, the investigation into the Surgeon, Peter Randall was already over. By late afternoon, she’d been called to face Superintendent Rush. Rush loved reading the riot act. It was so familiar that May had already tuned out. She would have rather been out working than sitting in Rush’s cramped office, listening to him rant. Rush wiped a bead of sweat off his forehand. Freckles and random tufts of red hair spotted his balding scalp.

Rush slammed a file of papers onto his desk. His face blazed with colour as he loosened his tie. Although initially excited by the possible link between the surgeon, Randall, and Sandra Hopkins, the evidence linking Randall to the latest killing had proved flimsy at best. During questioning he’d provided an air-tight alibi.

‘So where are we now?’ asked Rush.

‘DCI Nielson’s team is following up a number of leads in London, sir. Our attention is on Sandra Vernon and the church.’

‘And the gay club?’

May suppressed a snigger. Rush had almost spat out the word gay. ‘We are sending officers there every night, questioning the patrons.’

‘Right.’ Rush shuffled the papers on his desk, a signal for her to leave.

May remained standing. ‘Sir, what do you know about Julian Hastings?’

Rush looked up at her, the colour draining from his face. ‘I never worked with him, why?’

‘I’m not sure, we’ve been looking through the old Souljacker cases in some detail, and…’

Rush propped his elbows on the table. ‘I’m not sure I want to hear this.’

‘No, it’s nothing major, though it’s possible some avenues of investigation could have been explored a bit better.’

A sigh escaped from Rush as he tilted his head. ‘It was a different time then, quite often less of a team effort. Someone with Hastings’ previous experience would have been given the case and would have had pretty much a free rein.’

‘Even if he was unsuccessful?’

‘If you look at his case history, his record is exemplary. If you count the unsolved Souljacker murders as a whole it’s his only major failing.’ Rush strained his neck. ‘Sit down, May.’

May flattened her skirt, and sat back down. Rush was experiencing some internal debate. She understood the pressure he would be receiving from higher up. It was possibly proving too much for him. Patches of sweat lined his forehead, and his shirt was damp from perspiration. She was going to suggest opening a window when he spoke. ‘Do you understand the man-hours which would be needed if we reopened each case in detail?’

May knew all too well. It would be like running nine murder cases simultaneously, albeit with the added difficulty of all the evidence and those involved being twenty years older, if not dead. ‘It may not come down to that. I wanted to look at the first two cases to begin with, Clive Hale and Graham Jackett. Hastings wasn’t SIO on the first case. The Jackett case was the first one he worked. There might we something in those two which were overlooked, something which could relate to the others.’

Rush loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, a wisp of red hair springing out over the cotton. ‘What do you have in mind, specifically?’

‘I wanted to speak to some of Hastings’ colleagues at the time. Find out more about how the investigation was conducted.’

‘And?’

May thought about the religious aspect highlighted by Bradbury, the tentative way it had been investigated. Motive was the key aspect to this case. She’d hoped Hastings would have offered some more insight, but his suggestions had been vague at best. ‘Let me start there. Talk to those involved and we can see where we go next.’

‘I take it you’ve already made appointments.’

May didn’t answer.

‘Go,’ said Rush. ‘I want a full report by tomorrow.’

Back at her desk, May confirmed the appointment she’d made before speaking to Rush. Before leaving, she logged onto her private email and saw another email from Sean.

Dear Sarah, I only have a few days left in Bristol. I would really love to see you before I return. Love, Sean x

Her pulse increased as a jet of adrenalin shot through her body. It was ridiculous. He was basically harmless, and she knew how to defend herself, but still she always reacted. It would have been easier to block his email and forget he’d ever existed. Her father would call it Catholic guilt. She guessed that dealing with such occasional missives was a small penance to pay for what she’d done.

Prior to leaving for London, she’d managed to track down a Latin expert, Dr Alison Atwal. She’d agreed to meet the woman in the same coffee shop where she’d first met Lambert. She still had an hour so she checked through the working file on Haydon, and ensured that her team were all busy.

She stood outside her office and summoned Bradbury. She leant against the doorway as he approached. He walked towards her with his head high, not wishing to look weak in front of his colleagues.

‘Sit,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

Bradbury sat, back straight on one the office chairs. ‘I want you to pay a visit to Haydon’s old church again. They have a service this lunchtime. Some saint’s day. Try to mingle. Find out some more about them. The minister in particular.’

‘They’ll know me,’ said Bradbury.

‘That will make it easier then. But don’t do anything stupid. Be discreet and diplomatic. Charm not coercion.’

‘What about Klatzky and Lambert?’

‘They’re both in London. Nielson has people on it. Not our concern for the time being. Now, if there is nothing else?’ She decided not to tell him about her talk with Rush. She’d made an appointment with the original SIO on the Clive Hale case, Iain Hill. Hill had taken early retirement after the Hale case. He lived in a village called Backwell which was only a short journey from the centre. She wanted to speak to Hill before she told the rest of the team in case it was a dead end.

She left the station, and walked through the centre along Park Street. She was about to cross at the traffic lights when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Two taps, the hand strong, the gesture familiar. It can’t be, she thought, turning to see the grinning face of her ex-boyfriend.

She didn’t betray any emotions. She was a professional now, and acted as such. ‘Sean, what do you think you’re doing?’ She didn’t raise her voice, her tone cool and neutral.

The smile faded for a second then reappeared. He’d always been good-looking, and he’d aged well. His skin was less smooth, the odd wrinkle on his forehead and beneath his eyes, but he still had those almost feminine features. The ridiculously pronounced cheekbones, full lips, and bright eyes, which had attracted him to her all those years ago.

‘I tried to email you but you didn’t reply,’ he said, his smile not faltering once.

‘Sean, I thought this was all settled. I told you I would take a restraining order out on you if you came near me again.’

‘Oh, Sarah. That was years ago. We were kids.’

‘That’s not the point, Sean, and you know it.’ She looked about her, embarrassed that she’d raised her voice.

‘Have a coffee with me.’

‘No,’ she said, through gritted teeth.

‘I’ve grown up, Sarah. That was all years ago. I admit I was foolish, and I guess reckless. But you had… Well, that’s not important. I wanted to see you. To make amends. To move forward. To start again.’

She shook her head in disbelief. She turned away from him, and began walking up the hill. Sean followed close behind. May kept her gaze straight ahead, hoping he would stop following. Approaching the coffee shop on The Triangle, she stopped and rounded on him. She took a deep breath. ‘Listen to me, Sean. I don’t need you to make amends. I understand that you were hurt.’ She tried to placate him, to sound sympathetic. ‘But you know it didn’t give you the right to do what you did. Yes you were young, we both were.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But you need to take this on board. It is the last time I am going to tell you. There will never be a time when we start again. Is that clear?’

‘Please, just five minutes,’ he said.

‘If you are ever within five hundred metres of me again, I will arrest you, understand?’

For the first time his smile faltered, a coldness spreading to the man’s eyes, like an actor coming out of character. ‘You’d do that, and let all your colleagues know what you did?’

‘There we go, the real Sean at last. You’re good. You almost had even me convinced.’ He flinched as she moved towards him. ‘I’ve told you what will happen.’

‘I would tell them everything,’ he said, stepping back.

‘Everything? There’s nothing to tell. I had an abortion and you went crazy. Do you think they would care?’

‘They’ll hold it against you.’

‘They won’t care. If anything they’ll think you’re unbalanced and would arrest you. Stalking is a criminal offence. Stop bothering me. If I see you again, I promise you’ll be arrested.’ She walked across the road to the coffee shop.

This time he didn’t follow.

Chapter 24

May composed herself, waited for her breathing to return to normal and entered the coffee shop. She ordered a latte and waited for the academic to arrive. Sean was the last thing she needed now. Maybe she should have given him the time to talk, to get it over with, but she was in no mood to allow anyone to dictate to her, especially him. She focused on the case, banished Sean to the back of her thoughts.

Dr Atwal arrived twenty minutes later. In her early thirties, she had light brown skin and large, green eyes. ‘Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,’ said May.

‘My pleasure. I hope I can help. It’s not often I’m called in by the police for my expertise,’ a lilt of excitement in her broad Bristolian accent.

‘The Latin phrase I sent you. I imagine you understand our interest.’

‘Yes, that poor man who was killed the other week. Horrible. My colleagues and I thought there may have been another University victim years ago. Is that right?’

‘That’s correct. I can’t go into specifics with you, but can talk about anything that is public record.’ May gave the academic a file with pictures of the Latin inscription. ‘So what can you tell me?’

Atwal produced a small pair of reading glasses and studied the papers. Her face changed as she began to read. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and she winced on more than one occasion. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that
In oculis animus habitat
translates as The Soul Dwells in the Eyes. I believe the killer derived his nickname from the translation. I did a little research for you. The first recorded instance of the phrase occurs in a book called
Naturalis Historia
, an encyclopaedia of ancient knowledge written around the first century AD. It was a common belief at the time that the eyes revealed the inner soul. There are echoes of the belief in modern parlance as well. I’m sure you’ve heard phrases such as
the eyes see into the soul
and
evil eye
?’

May nodded. She wasn’t hearing anything new.

‘You might be interested to know that the modern word envy comes from the Latin
invidia
, which literally means to see into.’

The possibility that the killer was envious of his victims was not an avenue they had yet explored. ‘Is there something more specific about the phrase? Something which would give us an indication of why the killer would use it and not some other phrase or saying? Something religious perhaps?’

‘Not that I can ascertain. The author of
Naturalis Historia
, Pliny the Elder, was a noted natural history philosopher. I can’t see any further significance. Certainly nothing religious.’

‘I see. Where would someone pick up the phrase?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It seems quite an obscure saying. Would someone who uses it have a strong knowledge of Latin?’

Atwal pursed her lips as she considered the question, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘Not really. On the internet you’ll see hundreds of sites dedicated to Latin. Although it’s rarely studied in school any more, there’s still a lot of interest out there. You could do a search for Latin phrases matching the soul and eyes, and I’m sure this phrase would appear.’