Dead Eyed (36 page)

Hastings pushed Lambert’s head backwards and walked back towards the door. ‘Anyway,’ he said, his tone lightening. ‘I’ll give you some time to consider the matter.’

He slammed the door shut, not looking back.

The hours passed. Lambert tried a number of times to break the binds around his ankles and wrists to no avail. His whole left side throbbed. Every time he tried to shake his left leg, a wave of pain flooded his body. It was possible he had broken it in the accident, or that Hastings had done something to him in the interim.

Tillman should have received his email by now. He tried to remain positive, focused on the task ahead. It would be too easy to dwell on the impossibility of the situation. He was locked in position, subject to Hastings’ will, and history told him that people in his situation rarely lived to tell the tale. Despite his best efforts, images from the Souljacker crime scenes appeared in his head. He fooled himself that the pain could be managed. He’d undergone interrogation training when joining The Group, but knew nothing could fully prepare him for what lay in store.

His body cried out for sustenance. He’d had nothing to drink since the accident, and was severely dehydrated. He slipped in and out of dreamless sleep, startling himself awake every few minutes. In his lucid moments, he hypothesised that things were different this time. Hastings had two prisoners, not one. Although Tillman was not yet here, he would now know Hastings was the Souljacker. One way or another, it was the end of the line for Hastings, and Hastings had allowed himself to be caught. This had to mean something.

His body tensed as the door opened and light filled the room. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed patches of dried blood on the floor and walls.

Hastings entered carrying a bottle of water. ‘I have a little gift for you,’ he said, as if they were the best of friends. ‘But first you need to smarten up.’

Lambert’s chest convulsed as Hastings tipped half of the ice-cold water over his head. He gulped for breath as the water trickled down his head, his dry tongue reaching out for loose droplets.

‘I hate to see you this way. Here,’ said Hastings, pulling Lambert’s head back and trickling water into his mouth. Lambert kept still as the water coated his throat and mouth, knowing one false move could lead to Hastings choking him.

Hastings let go of Lambert’s head and took the bottle away. ‘Better?’

Lambert licked his lips, his body desperate for more water.

Hastings tipped the remainder of the bottle onto the floor. ‘I almost forgot, your guest,’ he said. He left the room and returned a minute later carrying a chair.

On the chair, bound and gagged, was something which resembled Sarah May.

Chapter 51

Hastings removed the gag from Sarah May’s mouth and repeated his water trick, tipping a second bottle of water over the woman’s head. May hardly moved.

‘She’s a bit depleted,’ said Hastings. He lifted her head, and forced the bottle into her mouth. ‘Drink now,’ he said, like a caring parent nursing a sick child.

Lambert struggled in his chair, endured the pain in his leg in a desperate attempt to get free. ‘What have you done to her, you sick fuck?’

‘She’s fine. She’s here for your benefit, Michael.’ He positioned Sarah so she faced Lambert and headed towards the door. ‘I don’t owe you this but I’ll share this information with you anyway. If you’re waiting for Glenn Tillman to come and rescue you, then you’ll be waiting a long time.’

‘Stop,’ said Lambert, as Hastings began shutting the door.

‘Do you really think I would keep DI May at my house? Come on, Michael. Give me some credit,’ said Hastings, shutting the door.

So he’d moved him whilst he’d been unconscious. At least Tillman and the others would be on the trail. It was a hollow consolation but something to cling onto. ‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘Sarah, it’s Michael. Michael Lambert.’

They sat opposite each other, tied to the steel-framed chairs, their knees almost touching.

May lifted her head. In the gloom, Lambert made out the shape of her mouth curling into a smile. ‘Is this your idea of a rescue?’ she said, her voice faint.

Lambert laughed. She was wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing the night she’d disappeared. Her jeans, and cotton shirt were caked in filth as was her tangled hair, her face drawn like she hadn’t eaten anything since Hastings had kidnapped her.

Lambert wanted to make a joke, about lulling Hastings into a false sense of security, but lacked the energy. ‘What happened?’

At least the water had invigorated her. When Hastings had carried her into the room, Lambert feared she was dead.

‘He took me outside the hotel. He must have been following me.’ She stopped speaking as a memory returned. ‘Sean?’ she asked.

Lambert paused. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Didn’t think so. I think I saw Hastings cut him. Can’t be sure.’

‘He left him at the scene. It was a clean cut. It would have been instantaneous.’

‘Sean followed me from Bristol. He wanted us to get back together.’

‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ said Lambert.

May locked eyes with him. ‘I had an abortion. I was seventeen,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘He never got over it. If I’d only stopped to speak to him. I could have at least given him that courtesy.’

‘Sarah, you know it’s not your fault. You didn’t owe Sean anything and how could you know about Hastings?’

May’s neck drooped as if it was taking all her energy to keep it aloft. ‘How did you know it was him?’

‘I was as shocked as you. He had a team working for him. We found Campbell.’

‘Really?’

‘He killed himself in front of me, rather than tell me about Hastings. I uncovered some unreported notes on the Billy Nolan case. Information had come in about him attending the counselling session at Gracelife. Hastings had suppressed the information.’ Lambert sighed. With his arms and legs tied, he felt absurdly vulnerable. ‘He’s killed Klatzky.’

‘Oh, God, Michael, I’m so sorry.’

‘He left a note, warned me to come alone. I sent a time-delayed email to my old boss, Tillman, but as you heard he must have moved me.’

‘Did he drug you as well?’

‘Must have.’ Lambert hesitated. ‘Has he done anything to you?’ Lambert’s pulse raced as he waited for her to answer.

‘Nothing physical, well, nothing sexual at least. He’s starved me, and subjected me to lengthy sermons about what he’s done and why. Christ, this is absurd. I bet he’s listening to every second of this.’

‘Let him listen. Tell me everything he’s told you.’

Chapter 52

May started to speak. ‘He’s thrown me snippets over the period I’ve been captive. It’s hard to tell what is real and what I imagined. He’s hardly fed me, and once or twice he’s drugged me with God knows what.’

‘Tell me what you remember,’ said Lambert.

May sighed. ‘He confessed to all the Souljacker murders except one.’

‘Which one?’

‘The first one, Clive Hale. He claims that was where he got the idea from. I’m not sure I shared this information with you, but I interviewed a handwriting expert the other day to examine the inscriptions on the body. The expert swore blind that the first one was different to the others. Hastings is right-handed and the first inscription was by a left-handed person.’

‘Who was the first killer then?’

‘Graham Jackett.’

Lambert let the information settle in. Jackett was the second Souljacker victim.

‘Hastings worked out he was the killer, and eliminated his competition,’ said May.

This didn’t make immediate sense to Lambert. He’d presumed Hastings had some master plan. That the killings had a reason. ‘So he’s a copycat?’

‘God, don’t say that to him. I made that mistake. He went ape. Claimed it was his destiny and Jackett was sent to him as a guide.’

‘A guide?’

May laughed. Lambert’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom and he could make out her features more easily. She’d lost weight in her face, but despite everything there was still a light in her eyes. ‘He believes he was sent to save twelve troubled souls.’

‘He saves them by killing them? By removing their eyes?’

‘Liberating their souls apparently.’

‘Jesus. Did he let on how he chose his victims?’ asked Lambert.

‘I quizzed him about the church and he became a bit defensive.’

Lambert told her about the connections with the other churches, how they’d discovered Campbell was working as a counsellor in more than one church. ‘Did you ask Hastings about Campbell?’

‘A loyal friend, apparently. Helped him with his work.’

‘How?’

‘He specialised in victims of abuse. From what I could ascertain, Campbell found the victims and passed them on to Hastings.’

Lambert thought about the night at Campbell’s house, the resigned look on the man’s face when he turned the shotgun on himself. He still didn’t know if it was guilt or fear which had made him take his own life. ‘What about Sandra Hopkins?’

‘She’d attended counselling sessions with Billy Nolan, had seen Terrence Haydon at the church, and knew Hastings. He called it a lovely symmetry.’

‘Jesus. And the others? Burnham, Olumide, Crosby?’

‘They worked for him and Campbell. He didn’t go into great detail, except they didn’t deserve to have their souls saved.’

‘Let me guess, by sealing their eyes, he sealed in their souls?’ said Lambert.

‘Bingo.’

They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Lambert tried to piece together Hastings’ motivation. He realised he didn’t know that much about the man, save for his police career and latterly his books. He wished he’d done more research. He knew Hastings had been married, his wife passing three years ago. Had anything else happened in his childhood? Was there some clue he could latch onto which could help talk the man out of whatever he had planned? If what May told him was true, then he clearly had some religious motivation. If he knew more, then it was possible he could appeal to that side of him.

‘Did he give a reason for his actions?’ asked Lambert.

‘Not beyond saving the twelve souls.’

‘Why twelve?’

‘He became evasive when I asked him. Then he became angry. He left the room and kept me in the darkness for hours.’

‘What’s your thinking?’

‘I would like access to the internet,’ said May, forcing a laugh. ‘The only thing I could come up with was the twelve apostles. I have no idea what the relevance is though, and I went to Catholic school.’

‘The number could have a personal significance.’

‘Does it matter?’ asked May.

‘I don’t know. If we can find out why he is doing this then we might be able to stop whatever he has planned.’

‘You’ve done the maths?’ asked May.

Lambert nodded. ‘If you count Klatzky, and dismiss the first killing which Hastings claims he wasn’t responsible for, then there have only been eleven Souljacker murders,’ he said.

‘He’s only saved eleven souls,’ agreed May.

‘At least we know who the twelve is going to be,’ said Lambert remembering what Hastings told him earlier. ‘He told me he was going to save me.’

Chapter 53

Hastings abandoned them for hours. Lambert slipped in and out of sleep, his position in the chair making it impossible to stay asleep for longer than a few minutes. He wondered how Sarah had managed for all this time.

They both called out to Hastings on occasion, demanding food, more water. ‘Do you think he’s left us here?’ said May.

In a way, abandonment was the worst thing that could happen to them. Lambert knew that Hastings was organised enough to imprison them in a place where they would never be found. The thought of a long drawn-out death was too much to consider. Even the alternative sounded better. At least Hastings had used anaesthetic on his victims in the past. Although they’d been alive when he’d removed their eyes, and carved the Latin into their chests, the pathologists agreed that the Souljacker victims had probably been too full of drugs to have suffered the worst of his actions.

‘He hasn’t left us,’ said Lambert. ‘He needs to finish his story.’

Sarah May was asleep when Hastings eventually returned. She’d been telling Lambert about her childhood, the Catholic school where she’d met Sean, when she’d drifted off. She was more used to sleeping in the chair, and had been asleep for what felt like thirty minutes when Hastings opened the door.

At first, he stood still in the entrance. A blurred silhouette surrounded by shades of darkness. Lambert was so dizzy with exhaustion, hunger and dehydration that it was almost a relief to see the man. He just wanted it over.

Lambert heard Hastings plug something into a socket in the hallway. ‘Shield your eyes,’ said Hastings, carrying a standing lamp into the room.

The light woke Sarah. Her eyes sprung open, her body struggling for a few seconds against the binds which tore into her flesh, before she settled in place, her eyes blinking and scanning the room. She scowled on seeing Hastings.

Illuminated, the room lost some of its claustrophobic power. It reminded Lambert of the nightclub he’d visited in Bristol a few days previous. How, without the darkness, the blinking lights and music, the place lost its power. It had become just an empty room, and so was their prison. He scanned the room for clues to their location, and possible means of escape which was ludicrous considering their predicament. Chipped plasterboard covered the once white walls. Splashes of red decorated the faded paint like an abstract painting.

‘Sorry for the delay,’ said Hastings. ‘A few arrangements needed before the end.’

The brilliance of the light highlighted the wrinkles on Hastings’ face, the laughter lines rarely used. Hastings left the room and returned with a third chair which he placed near the entrance.

Lambert watched, helpless, as Hastings dragged Sarah May’s chair across the room. She managed to keep silent, her head swinging violently from side to side as he moved her. He placed her chair opposite his, a metre between the two seats.

‘What are you doing, Hastings? You said I was your target,’ said Lambert.