Dead Eyed (24 page)

‘So what didn’t he tell you?’

‘It’s probably nothing, but there are some gaps in the investigations.’

‘Gaps?’ Lambert had read each Souljacker murder file numerous times and didn’t know where this was leading.

‘Nothing that would warrant a case review. Didn’t you find the case histories on the victims to be lacking?’ She turned to look at him, just as he was shovelling some baguette in his mouth.

He swallowed. ‘I don’t know,’ he conceded. ‘They’re in line with the reports for that era. What do you think was missing?’

‘As you know six of the victims had religious affiliates, even if they were to different organisations. I’m surprised Hastings didn’t look into this more, especially as the bodies piled up.’

‘Maybe he did. We should ask him.’

‘I will. I’ll be interested to see how this links in with the counselling sessions.’

Lambert paid for lunch and they walked back into the centre. ‘Let me help,’ he said, as they reached the turning for May’s station.

‘Can I stop you?’ she said, touching him on the arm. ‘Keep me informed.’

Lambert watched May’s figure disappear around the corner, and hailed another taxi.

Chapter 31

‘Where to, mate?’

‘Weston.’

‘Really? It’ll cost you.’

‘That’s fine.’

Thirty minutes later, the taxi dropped him outside the estate where Roger Haydon had lived. Lambert paid the driver and held out an extra twenty pounds in from of him. ‘Think you could wait for me? Hour at the most?’ he said.

‘I could do with some lunch,’ said the driver, snatching the money from Lambert’s grip.

Lambert took the short walk to Haydon’s old residence and knocked on the door.

Langtree opened the door before he’d finished knocking. ‘I saw you arrive in your taxi,’ he said, swaying in the door frame.

‘Can I come in, Thomas?’

‘Do what you fucking like, you will anyway.’ Langtree turned his back, and Lambert followed him into the house.

The place had transformed since the last time Lambert had visited. It had been a mess before. Now, it was a disaster. The place writhed with litter. Lambert waded through empty bottles and cans which coated the carpet of the living room. Discarded fast food packaging, cigarette butts, and piles of dirty laundry fought for every available space. Langtree sat on the same armchair Roger Haydon had sat in earlier in the week. He was dressed like the older man, in an oversized pair of boxer shorts and cotton vest. He picked up a tumbler filled to the brim with liquid, the colour of which suggested brandy or whiskey.

Lambert lifted a mound of soiled clothes from the sofa and sat down.

‘So what do you what, Lambert?’ said Langtree, slurring his words until they were almost unintelligible. ‘Come to pay your condolences again?’

‘I’m so sorry about Roger, Thomas. He seemed like a very nice guy.’

‘Nice guy? Nice fucking guy. That’s a good one.’ Langtree took a gulp of his drink as if it was water, wiping his mouth with his forearm.

‘DI May told me that someone else visited Roger before he…’

‘Killed himself?’ Langtree jumped to his feet, and fell back down onto his chair. He tried a second time, this time using the arm rest as a support. ‘Drink?’

‘Not for me.’

Langtree stumbled to the sideboard, a sixth sense helping him bypass the detritus surrounding the drinks cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and refilled his tumbler. A quarter of the drink had spilt to the floor by the time he reached his seat.

‘You’ll do yourself a mischief,’ said Lambert.

Langtree glared at him, his eyes struggling to maintain eye contact.

‘So, this visitor, Thomas. What do you remember about him?’

Langtree sighed. He looked at his drink but didn’t move the tumbler to his mouth. ‘I didn’t see him, I was at work.’

‘Did Roger say anything about him? Give any clues about who he may have been?’

Langtree shrugged. ‘If he did, he didn’t let on.’

‘So what happened?’ Lambert guessed Langtree was about a drink away from collapse.

‘By the time I was home, Roger had gone all quiet. He had a drink then he went out. Wouldn’t let me come with.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘Pub, I guess, I don’t fucking know.’ Langtree raised his voice, the face contorting on the verge of tears or violence.

‘Okay, Thomas, sorry. I’m only trying to help. Did you see Roger again after that?’

‘No,’ said Langtree, draining his glass, his eyes welling up. ‘I had to go to work,’ he said, between sobs. ‘When I came back, he was…’ Langtree was crying hard. ‘I’ve told your colleagues everything I know.’

Lambert stood up and placed a hand on Langtree’s shoulder. He was surprised when the man didn’t flinch. ‘Can I take a look?’

‘Yes,’ said Langtree, not looking up.

Police tape still cordoned the area but Lambert stepped under it. The SOCOs had finished their work so he couldn’t damage the scene anyway. A few days ago, Langtree had caught him snooping around up here. Now it was the place where Roger Haydon had died. The room still smelt of bleach and cleaning materials. Lambert touched the wooden beam in the corner of the room, the grain rough and sticky. He pictured the thick rope wrapped around the beam, Haydon’s lifeless body dangling beneath it.

He hadn’t spent enough time with Haydon to tell if he’d been suicidal or not. He’d certainly been upset over his estranged son’s death but hadn’t given the impression of wanting to end his life. There was something about his relationship with Thomas which comforted him. It was possible that the man who’d visited him yesterday had been the catalyst, but until they found out who that was they were stumped.

Lambert returned downstairs to find Langtree asleep on the floor. After manoeuvring the man into the recovery position, he retrieved a duvet from upstairs and placed it over his sleeping body. Finally, he scrolled his name and mobile number onto a piece of paper and left it by his side.

Chapter 32

Lambert spent the night in Bristol, twice coming close to calling May. He read through the case files again, from Clive Hale to Sandra Hopkins, searching for the missing gaps suggested by May. He couldn’t see anything of significance. There were always multiple avenues of approach to a murder, and Hastings had taken the normal route. Each victim’s background had been investigated thoroughly enough, and after each fresh murder Hastings had crosschecked the new victim with the older cases.

Lambert knew the DS on the Billy Nolan case, Cormack Riley. Riley worked out of Greenwich when Lambert was in The Group and they’d exchanged resources on a couple of occasions. Billy Nolan was the only Souljacker case Riley had worked on, before joining the MET. Lambert took a note of his details and headed for the railway station.

Klatzky called as he was boarding the train at Temple Meads. He sounded panicked, his voice high, his speech pattern slurred. ‘I’ve just been back to my place,’ he said.

‘And?’

‘There was a package there, no stamp, delivered through the door same as before.’

‘Have you opened it?’ asked Lambert.

‘Yes, and I wish I hadn’t. There are more photos. Someone else this time.’

The train carriage was empty save for a lone businessman engrossed in his laptop. ‘Same sort of thing as Haydon?’ asked Lambert, not wanting to get into specifics over the phone.

‘Not exactly,’ said Klatzky.

Lambert could hear background noise on the other end of the line. ‘Are you in a bar?’

‘Where else?’

‘Get to Paddington station. I’ll be there in under two hours. Simon, don’t speak to anyone.’

Klatzky was dressed in what Lambert imagined were last night’s clothes. He’d aged a decade since Lambert had last seen him. His eyes were lifeless. Lambert spotted him as he left the train, walking trance-like outside the entry to the platforms, a brown envelope clutched to his chest.

‘Let’s get a coffee,’ said Lambert.

‘I need something stronger.’

Lambert lacked the strength to argue. They took an escalator to a bar which overlooked the station’s concourse. Lambert ordered tea whilst Klatzky ordered a lager with a vodka chaser. With shaking hands, he gave Lambert the envelope.

It was only photos this time. Lambert knew immediately what he was looking at. It wasn’t Samuel Burnham but it was an identical crime scene to the one DCI Bardsley had shown him. The victim was a black man, shaved head, late thirties. Like Burnham, his eyes had been sealed shut with lines of wire, his throat slit. The third picture showed a jagged line where his left leg had been severed; right at the point where Lambert had broken it.

‘You didn’t see who dropped this at your flat?’ asked Lambert.

‘No. It was there when I got back.’

‘When had you last been back, prior to that?’

‘The morning before we went to Bristol.’

Lambert examined the photos again. They were not police quality. The images were hazy, the resolution poor as if they’d been printed on a home printer. It was probable that the killer had taken them. It was unlikely he had left any prints, but Lambert held the photos with a napkin on the edge of the paper.

‘Why is he sending them to me?’ asked Klatzky, drinking the vodka in one gulp, his fingernails ratting against the hard wood of the table.

‘I’m not sure. Did you ever tell anyone else about Billy’s counselling sessions?’

‘Not that I can remember.’

‘Think carefully, Simon.’

‘I didn’t tell anyone at the time, I’m sure. Billy swore me to secrecy. I can’t see any reason why I would have blurted it out since. I didn’t even tell you until now.’

Klatzky now linked the Souljacker and the second killer and had received photos from both crime scenes which confirmed to Lambert that the Burnham killer was the Souljacker.

Things were closing in. The photos were important evidence but he planned to keep hold of them for the time being.

He realised now he’d been wrong. Klatzky wasn’t being set up as he’d initially thought. The Souljacker was after him and was using Klatzky to draw him in.

‘Okay, Si. You can stay at mine for the time being, until we’ve sorted this,’ said Lambert.

‘Thanks, Mikey. Can I get you a drink?’

‘No. Listen, you should…’

His pleas fell on deaf ears. ‘Look, sorry, man, but could you lend me some cash?’

Lambert emptied his wallet and gave the money to Klatzky. There was no way he would be able to talk him out of the bar. He tried anyway. ‘I need to get back. You should come with me.’

‘I’ll think I’ll stay here awhile. Stay out of trouble,’ said Klatzky, pocketing the money and signalling the barman.

Lambert waited until he was home to look at the photos again. He caught the tube to London Bridge and the overground train home. He tried to steer his mind away from the case. Everything was a clutter, his mind a jumble of useless information. Experience told him that tying to think about other things often led to inspiration, to an insight that would otherwise elude him.

From Clockhouse train station he ambled back to the house, his limbs stiff, an ache building in his head. Reluctantly he opened his front door. Inside, he brewed a pot of coffee. Knowing Sophie was away made the house seem empty even though she was never usually at home during the day.

Coffee in hand he walked through each room of the house trying to think, avoiding looking again at the pictures. The ceilings felt higher than normal, the rooms less cluttered as if Sophie had taken half of the house’s contents with her when she’d left. She’d be at work now. Lambert tried not to think about where she was spending her nights. She’d given him the name of a hotel but he’d yet to check if she was there. The possibility that she was spending her nights with Julian Taylor was too much for him to consider at the moment.

He sat on one of the armchairs in the living room where the other evening he’d shared the company of Klatzky and Roddy. He opened the photo file which had been delivered to Klatzky. He’d seen hundreds of crime scene photos in his time but it never became any easier. Normally he could detach himself from the images but the pictures before him had a certain resonance. It wasn’t the images themselves that troubled him, the naked middle-aged man, the puffy black skin splattered with patches of maroon, the neatness of the wire which sealed the man’s eyes shut, the cleanness of the cut on the man’s leg. It was the fact that he knew the victim, had fought with him only days before.

It was clear now. The pictures had been meant for him.

It wasn’t Klatzky who linked the Souljacker and this second killer. It was him.

He walked back to the kitchen and filled his cup again with black coffee. On The System, he searched for details of the new victim but couldn’t find anything. He ran a number of searches on Klatzky but nothing significant appeared beyond his existing arrest warrant. He cross-searched Klatzky’s name with Campbell, then with Sandra Hopkins. He cross-searched Klatzky with Billy Nolan and Samuel Burnham. Running out of ideas he crosschecked Klatzky with all the previous victims, still nothing.

In the end, he called DCI Bardsley.

‘I haven’t seen you for ten years and now I can’t bloody get rid of you,’ said Bardsley, in his dour Black Country accent.

‘Thought I’d check in,’ said Lambert.

‘Oh yes, why?’

‘I was wondering if you had anything new to tell me.’

Bardsley didn’t answer, only the faint sound of his breathing audible through the earpiece on Lambert’s phone. Lambert wasn’t about to break the silence.

Eventually Bardsley relented.

‘Is there something you need to tell me, Mike?’ he said.

‘No, I’m only curious as to developments,’ said Lambert.

Silence again.

‘I guess you’d hear about it anyway,’ said Bardsley. ‘There’s been a second victim. Kwasi Olumide. His body was discovered earlier today on the forecourt of a disused petrol station. Same MO as Samuel Burnham. Eyes sealed shut. The body had been moved. He’d been dead for at least forty-eight hours by the time we found him.’

‘Any body part missing?’ said Lambert, thinking about how the killer had removed Sam Burnham’s lips.