Dead Embers Read online

  Dead Embers

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Dead Embers

  Matt Brolly

  For my Mum and Dad, Carla and Joe Brolly.

  Chapter One

  The girl pulled the duvet over her head and tried to return to sleep.

  Her skin bristled with heat beneath the cover and she stuck her head back out. ‘Mummy?’ she whispered, her words lost in the darkness.

  Her toys acted as if nothing was happening. She grabbed Laney and studied her face, the glass eyes and stitched smile revealing no sense of fear. A crashing noise came from downstairs and she retreated back further beneath the covers with her doll.

  It was hot, and not just because she was wrapped in the duvet. She wanted to leave the room, to make the small journey to Mummy and Daddy’s room, but they didn’t like her leaving her bed in the middle of the night and she wanted to be a good girl. Mummy would come to her if anything was wrong, she was sure. She listened, but all she could hear was the rapid thumping of her heart.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked Laney, as more noises rose from the depths of the house. The sounds were familiar but she couldn’t recall from where. She closed her eyes and pictured the dragon from the book Mummy read to her at bedtime.

  She poked Laney’s head out of the duvet and turned the doll’s face in a circle so she could check nothing was in the room with them. Laney didn’t say anything so she stuck her head back out.

  The room had changed. She rubbed her eyes. She must be tired. Mummy and Daddy always said she was tired when things were going wrong. Her eyes watered, and the room faded. She glanced down at the nightlight, peering closer at the air which danced around its orange glow. Then the door blew open.

  She grabbed Janey closer and started to cough. A strange figure stood in her doorway. He wore a helmet and a funny mask. Behind him, something glowed like her nightlight but much brighter. It had changed the house. The man mumbled something and she struggled to keep her eyes open as he grabbed her from the bed and placed something over her mouth.

  Chapter Two

  DCI Michael Lambert sped up the escalator. Sweat dripped from his brow, the result of ill-advised heating throughout the packed underground. He sprinted to the gates, holding his scarf in anticipation of the cold blast of air that would greet him above ground. He hurtled up the steps out onto Oxford Street, falling into a group of tourists who had decided this was the perfect spot to check the maps on their phones.

  He barged through them, crossed the road and ran down the side street that led to the restaurant. He was already thirty minutes late. He’d been stuck on the Tube for the last twenty minutes so had been unable to send his apologies. The restaurant was down another flight of stairs. He took them in twos, hoping she was still there. He scanned the room for her as he caught his breath and hung his coat.

  DCI Sarah May sat in the far corner watching him with detached amusement, a glass of cold water in her hand. ‘You’re late,’ she said, as he approached the table. Her top lip was curled into a crooked smile, which he knew well but couldn’t quite read.

  ‘Damn Tube,’ said Lambert, still out of breath.

  ‘I was about to leave. Take a seat, I might change my mind.’ She was smiling, but there was an edge to her voice.

  Sarah had recently moved from Bristol CID to take a position with the Met. She was originally from London but part of her decision to move had been Lambert. They had been in an on-off relationship for nearly two years now. At the moment it was closer to being off than on.

  Lambert ordered some water and tried to apologise again. ‘I couldn’t get any signal on the Tube,’ he said.

  Sarah relaxed, murmuring. She gave him one of her intent stares. ‘I’ve only thirty minutes left now, so we should order.’

  They went straight to the main course, both choosing the restaurant’s speciality, a fish stew.

  ‘How’s work?’ said Lambert.

  Sarah sighed, and he feared he’d said the wrong thing. ‘Fine.’

  ‘How are you?’ he said, trying again.

  Sarah laughed and he relaxed. ‘I’m well, Michael. Believe it or not, I’m pleased to see you. It’s been nearly a week.’

  Lambert nodded. ‘I know. It’s great seeing you too. Sorry I cancelled the other night.’

  ‘Have you seen Sophie recently?’ She kept her eyes fixed on him. He instinctively edged back in his seat. It was no wonder she had such a great reputation as an interrogator.

  Sophie was Lambert’s estranged wife. Their daughter, Chloe, had died four years previously. Sophie had given birth to another baby girl almost a year ago, but Lambert wasn’t the father. Every time Sarah mentioned Sophie in conversation he was reminded of Chloe, and her sister who wasn’t his.

  ‘Not for ages,’ he said.

  ‘Ages?’

  Lambert shrugged. He wanted to tell her about the nights he’d recently spent outside Sophie’s house, the house which was still technically his. How he’d sat in his car wondering what he was doing there, acting like a deranged voyeur. It wasn’t fair on Sarah, but he didn’t know how to explain the homing instinct which continually guided him back there. ‘A few weeks, now,’ he said, ashamed to be lying.

  Sarah examined him again as if seeking truth from his words. ‘It would make it easier for all of us if you were honest about how you feel.’

  Lambert was thankful the waitress had returned, depositing their meals on the table. ‘Thank you,’ said Lambert, dipping his spoon into the steaming bowl.

  They ate in silence for some time, Lambert enjoying the saltiness of the fish despite the uncomfortable atmosphere.

  ‘I’ve told you, I understand,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That baby – Jane, I mean – is Chloe’s sister.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’ said Lambert, louder t
han intended.

  ‘Then you know it’s OK if you want to go back to Sophie and raise her together.’

  Lambert drank his water, the coldness of which was unpleasant in contrast to the stew. ‘Anyone would think you’re trying to get rid of me.’

  Sarah shook her head. Lambert wasn’t sure if it was pity or disgust in her look. ‘You are an idiot sometimes. I don’t want to get rid of you, but I don’t want to be second best any longer.’

  Lambert didn’t know how to respond. He hoped he wasn’t treating her that way. She deserved more, and he needed to get his priorities in order. ‘I’m sorry if you feel I’ve been doing that,’ he said, a little too late.

  Sarah ignored his weak response and continued eating. After she finished, she placed her hands on his. ‘I need to go,’ she said.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Think about it?’

  ‘I will,’ said Lambert.

  He watched her leave the restaurant, and wondered how the hell he was managing to mess everything up.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Lambert lay motionless on a metal tray and tried not to think about being buried alive. The machinery which curled around his prone body was close enough to touch. He ignored the feeling of claustrophobia, using self-taught breathing exercises as classical music drifted through his earphones. The piece, Bach’s Suite No. three in D major, was interrupted by the harsh tones of the radiographer. ‘Please lie as still as possible, Mr Simmons.’

  Simmons was the name Chief Superintendent Glenn Tillman, the man who’d arranged this for Lambert, had given the radiographer. At last count, Tillman owed Lambert at least two favours, and the anonymous MRI scan was the first he had called in.

  ‘Comfortable, Mr Simmons?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Lambert.

  ‘I don’t wish to repeat myself, but it is imperative you lie totally still for the whole scan.’

  Lambert sighed, and adjusted his position a final time. ‘Fine,’ he repeated, his voice rising. He wanted out of the room as quick as possible.

  ‘OK, you’ll hear some humming sounds and clicks as the scanner does its job. It’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Let’s get it done, shall we?’ It was three am in a private hospital in Surrey. Although they were doing nothing technically illegal, getting caught now would cause Lambert problems.

  The machine came to life. Lambert closed his eyes. It was Sarah who had finally persuaded him to take the scan. Lambert had suffered from occasional blackouts since his early twenties, usually during times of stress. The episodes would start with a kaleidoscope of colour before his eyes, followed closely by loss of consciousness. Lambert assumed it was a form of narcolepsy, but had never allowed himself to be formally diagnosed. Over the years he’d managed to contain the condition, but the episodes had intensified recently and Sarah had witnessed it for the first time.

  She wanted him to report it to his superiors but such an admission could result in him being taken off rotation, and a permanent mark on his record. Lambert discussed the issue with Tillman – the only senior level officer he could trust – and found himself in a dimly lit hospital corridor seven days later. He still hadn’t told Sarah.

  ‘All over,’ said the voice in his earphones.

  The metal tray made its slow journey back into the light. Lambert realised his eyes were still shut. As he opened them, the first thing he saw was the caricature smile of Glenn Tillman.

  ‘Bit too claustrophobic for you?’ he said, hauling Lambert to his feet with one pull of his gigantic arm.

  ‘It would turn anyone claustrophobic,’ said Lambert, wondering if his colleague would even fit in the confines of the scanner. Tillman’s considerable bulk seemed to be constantly expanding. He did little to hide this fact, his shirt stretching to the seams across his broad chest.

  The radiographer joined them. A slight man in his twenties, he shuffled from foot to foot. ‘This is all a bit rushed,’ he said, handing over some print-outs to Lambert.

  ‘Don’t keep us waiting,’ said Tillman, staring hard at the man. Tillman had a constant air of impatience and anger about him, as if the slightest thing was likely to set off his rage.

  The radiographer blinked rapidly. ‘I’m no expert, I need to make that clear.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ said Tillman.

  ‘There’s nothing here which suggests an abnormality. No sign of a tumour, or blood on the brain. I would suggest speaking to someone better qualified, but I’ve done hundreds of these now and there’s nothing out of the ordinary.’

  It was a relief, though it raised as many questions as it answered. Lambert glanced at his superior for a response.

  ‘Are we done?’ said Tillman.

  ‘I guess so,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Here, take your brain and meet me in the car park,’ said Tillman, handing Lambert the scans. ‘I need a quick word with our friend.’

  * * *

  The vastness of the car park came in stark contrast to the confines of the MRI scanner. Lambert leant against Tillman’s car, tying his scarf and buttoning his jacket against the cold of the December morning. He imagined Tillman threatening the radiographer, ensuring his silence. Whatever Tillman’s shortcomings, lack of loyalty was not amongst them.

  ‘How you feeling?’ said Tillman, breaking the stillness of the night as he stormed from the building, his footsteps sending gravel into the air.

  ‘Fine,’ said Lambert, opening the passenger seat.

  ‘We don’t need to talk about this any further, do we?’

  Lambert grinned. ‘No.’

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good, because something came in when you were having your rest.’

  Chapter Three

  An hour later they arrived at a gated community in Chislehurst. Lambert spotted the thick plume of black smoke about a mile away. It took him back to earlier that year when he’d worked on the Watcher case which had involved an explosion at a mansion in Hampstead, North London. It had taken the lives of over thirty party guests, including two serving police officers. He glanced at Tillman, who’d been present at the scene. He knew they were both thinking about Lambert’s former partner DS Matilda Kennedy.

  ‘When did you last see her?’ asked Lambert.

  Tillman’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘Yesterday,’ he said, his tone suggesting the conversation was ended.

  Matilda had been undercover at the time of the explosion and suffered serious injuries, including severe burns to the left side of her face. At one point it seemed likely she would lose the use of her left eye, but eventually her vision had returned. She and Tillman were lovers, and Tillman had been ever-present during her convalescence. As far as Lambert was aware, they were still together, though Tillman tended not to share such information with him.

  Tillman rounded the corner and the destination came into view. It was a detached property, half the size of the house in Hampstead. Flames were still devouring what was left of the brickwork. Fire crews busied away, spraying jets into the centre of the inferno.

  Tillman pulled up and they both showed their ID to a uniformed officer guarding the perimeter tape. ‘Who’s in charge?’ said Tillman.

  ‘DS Croft is the senior officer,’ said the uniform, pointing to a woman who was talking to one of the fire officers.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Tillman, DCI Lambert,’ said Tillman, approaching Croft as the fire chief walked off.

  ‘Sir?’ said Croft, confused.

  ‘You should have been informed, Sergeant,’ said Tillman. ‘We’ve been called in on this one. DCI Lambert will be the SIO on this case.’

  Lambert raised his eyebrows, confused as to why he was being assigned an arson case. He remained silent, studying the DS, who was caught between confusion and outrage that her position at the scene was about to be hijacked.

  ‘Who is “we”?’ Croft demanded, her words laced with insolence.

  ‘NCA,’ said Lambert.


  Croft shrugged her shoulders, as if the presence of the National Crime Agency at what looked a routine arson case in Chislehurst was expected.

  ‘Lambert, I’ll leave this with you,’ said Tillman.

  Lambert nodded, as Tillman departed back to his car without a further word.

  ‘I’m going to discuss this with my boss,’ said Croft, her phone already to her ear.

  Lambert edged nearer the building. The fire still raged, absorbing the jets of water being fired into its heart, its structure all but destroyed. The heat made Lambert’s skin prickle. He scratched his left thigh, where he’d suffered second degree burns at the Hampstead property.

  ‘Apparently you’re in charge,’ said Croft, returning.

  ‘It’s as much a surprise to me as to you,’ said Lambert. He held out his hand. ‘Michael Lambert.’

  ‘Gemma Croft.’

  Croft was a short, stocky woman, close in age to Lambert. He understood her objection to his presence. ‘What can you tell me, Croft?’ he asked.

  ‘We received a number of reports of a large explosion in this area, ninety minutes ago, followed by a report of a fire. The fire service reached the scene quickly and managed to rescue one inhabitant, a three-year-old girl, from the first storey.’

  Lambert hid his surprise. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s been taken to the local hospital.’

  ‘Her parents?’

  ‘We can only presume they’re inside. There was no sign upstairs when they got the girl out, and the fire service have been unable to enter the building since. Both their mobiles go straight to answerphone.’

  Lambert rubbed his lower face. He tried not to think about the three-year-old girl at the hospital. ‘Names of the parents?’

  ‘Caroline and Marcus Jardine.’

  Lambert tried to recall why the names sounded familiar.

  Croft rescued him. ‘Has your boss told you nothing? Caroline Jardine is an officer,’ she said.

  Lambert nodded. ‘Shit. She’s in the Met?

  ‘DI Caroline Jardine, sir. She works out of Hackney.’

  ‘Right,’ said Lambert, understanding why he’d been assigned to the case. Jardine’s involvement would propel the case into the media spotlight, and Tillman’s department would have been requested to work on the case. ‘Marcus Jardine?’ asked Lambert.