Dead Water

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Matt Brolly

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Preview of Dead Eyed (DCI Lambert 1)

  Dead Eyed

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  More by Author: Dead Eyed

  More by Author: Dead Lucky

  More by Author: Dead Embers

  More by Author: Dead Time

  About the Author

  Following his law degree where he developed an interest in criminal law, Matt Brolly completed his Masters in Creative Writing at Glasgow University.

  He is the bestselling author of the DCI Lambert crime novels, Dead Eyed, Dead Lucky, Dead Embers, and Dead Time as well as the acclaimed near future crime novel, Zero, and the US thriller, The Controller.

  In 2020 the first of a new crime series set in the West Country of the UK will be released by Thomas and Mercer (Amazon Publishing)

  Matt also writes children's books as M.J. Brolly. His first children's book, The Sleeping Bug, was released by Oblong Books in December 2018.

  Matt lives in London with his wife and their two young children. You can find out more about Matt at his website www.mattbrolly.co.uk or by following him on twitter: @MattBrollyUK

  Also by Matt Brolly

  DCI LAMBERT NOVELS:

  DEAD EYED - DCI LAMBERT BOOK1

  DEAD LUCKY - DCI LAMBERT BOOK 2

  DEAD EMBERS - DCI LAMBERT BOOK 3

  DEAD TIME - DCI LAMBERT BOOK 4

  OTHER NOVELS

  ZERO

  THE CONTROLLER

  THE CROSSING

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Oblong Books

  Copyright © 2019 by Matt Brolly

  The moral right of Matt Brolly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  978-0-9957747-5-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Michael Brolly

  Prologue

  The pub was stationed less than a hundred yards from Belmarsh prison in southeast London. Detective Chief Superintendent Glenn Tillman had called in a favour and shut down the place for the day. A hush descended over the room as, head bowed, Alice Fowler opened the door, followed by her mother.

  The situation was a first for DCI Michael Lambert. While Alice had spent the last hour in the prison for the parole hearing of Joseph Wyatt, Lambert had been in the bar with Alice’s father and the families of the victims.

  Twenty-five years ago, Joseph Wyatt had been convicted for the murder of two young women and the attempted murder of Alice Fowler. Like his victims, Wyatt had been a member of the university rowing team.

  Lambert was at a table with Tillman and the two former officers who’d arrested Wyatt.

  ‘How did it go, dear?’ asked Alice’s father, Tom.

  Alice crashed down onto a chair as if her legs had been kicked away from her. ‘I hardly recognised him, he’s changed so much.’ she said, downing the offered vodka in one quick gulp.

  Tillman walked from behind the bar and placed a second drink in front of Alice. ‘What happened?’ he asked Alice’s mother.

  ‘He was still being questioned when we left. Alice and I read out our statements.’ The woman hung onto the solid arm of her husband, who stared ahead with stoic intensity. His air of hostility hadn’t faded since earlier in the morning when they’d first gathered. He’d appeared to be on a hair trigger, and Lambert had been waiting for the man to explode ever since.

  ‘You should have seen him,’ said Mrs Fowler, shaking her head. ‘I’m scared, Tom,’ she said to her husband, as if they were alone. ‘He was acting like he was sorry, that he regretted everything and I think they believed him.’

  ‘Didn’t they listen to what you said?’ asked Tom Fowler.

  ‘I told them the impact he had on our lives, Dad,’ said Alice. ‘On everyone’s lives,’ she added, glancing at the families of the other victims, who had not been so fortunate. ‘It’s up to them now.’

  Tom Fowler went behind the bar and poured some more vodka. ‘You can’t let this happen,’ he said to Tillman.

  ‘Let’s wait and see what they come back with, Mr Fowler,’ said Tillman.

  ‘When will we know?’ said Tom Fowler.

  ‘They have fourteen days but I’ll find out earlier. I promise you all, I will notify you as soon as I know,’ said Tillman.

  Lambert stood as the families filtered out. The signs of loss were unmistakable and Lambert thought about his daughter, Chloe, and how inconceivable it would be to live without her. The families exchanged words with Tillman and the other officers until only the Fowlers were left.

  Tom Fowler offered his hand to Tillman, the hardness still in his eyes. They looked like a close-knit family but Wyatt’s attack had impacted them as much as the others. Alice had dropped out of university, and had suffered from depression ever since. Lambert understood Mr Fowler’s anger. Wyatt’s attacks had been savage. Alice’s witness statement recalled in terrifying detail how he’d attacked her by the river, the grip of his hands against her throat as he’d held her under the water, the attack made worse by the fact she knew and trusted her assailant. And she was the lucky one, the one still alive to tell the tale. ‘I wanted him to rot in there,’ said Fowler.

  ‘We all did,’ said Tillman, breaking free of the handshake.

  Tillman was Lambert’s direct supervisor within a specialised division of the Serious Organised Crime Agency (SOCA) known as the Group. He’d suggested Lambert attend as a neutral observer but this cold case had no relevance to Lambert and he wanted to be away from the graveyard feel, and return to work on the numerous cases that needed his urgent attention.

  Once the families were gone, Tillman retrieved a bottle of whisky from behind the bar and placed it on the table. The only people left were Tillman’s two former colleagues from the investigation, Mark Devlin and Terry Kirby - and Dan Hogg, a journalist who was friends with the trio, and who’d reported on the Wyatt case.

  Lambert wanted to object but Kirby had already started pouring the drinks. Reluctantly, Lambert joined the four men in a silent toast.

  ‘He hasn’t changed,’ Tillman said eventually, undoing his top button. Tillman had the upper body of a body builder, albeit one who was slightly out of shape. Yet he still insisted on wearing shirts one size too small for him.

  ‘Remember when we brought him in?’ said Kirby, his mouth half full of whisky. ‘Absolutely no remorse for what he’d done.’

  ‘He was pro
ud. Thought he was something special. Those poor girls,’ said Devlin.

  Tillman’s eyes lowered but he didn’t comment.

  ‘You reported on it?’ Lambert asked the journalist, Hogg, who’d been silent ever since Alice Fowler had returned.

  ‘First major case.’

  Lambert looked over at Tillman who was unusually silent. ‘You all knew each other before though?’

  ‘We were at university together.’

  Lambert smiled at the idea of Tillman being at university. He couldn’t picture his superior at lectures, or even at a student bar. He viewed Tillman as someone who’d been fully formed as a policeman and struggled to imagine him listening to anyone else’s opinion. ‘So you three joined the Met, and you became a journalist?’

  ‘He couldn’t hack real life, even back then, could you Hoggy?’ said Kirby.

  Hogg sighed and drank some whisky. ‘I wanted to write about corruption not be at the heart of it,’ he said, with a wry smile.

  ‘Didn’t have the balls,’ said Kirby.

  ‘Remind me what you do again, Terry?’ said Hogg.

  ‘Why did Wyatt do it?’ asked Lambert, desperate to change the tone of the souring conversation.

  ‘His mother drowned when he was a child,’ said Hogg.

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Devlin. ‘He was a sick little bastard who couldn’t get a girlfriend. Probably couldn’t get it up either.’

  ‘He played the mental health card but thankfully they didn’t fall for it. Now he’s a reformed character by all accounts. Found God and whatnot. You should do a piece on him, Hogg,’ said Kirby, not hiding his disdain.

  The animosity was palpable. Lambert had noticed the gentle ribbing between the four men earlier, but much of it was now centred on the journalist, the teasing suddenly closer to bullying.

  ‘Perhaps we should think about heading off, Sir,’ said Lambert.

  Tillman scowled and poured everyone another drink, no one prepared to argue with him.

  Reluctantly, Lambert accepted the whisky. He was still confused by his role as neutral observer. Until yesterday, he’d never heard of the case, and Tillman hadn’t supplied him with any details beyond the basics.

  ‘What happened on the night you found Wyatt?’ he asked. Tillman wasn't a talker. Lambert knew very little about the man personally. He was a diligent professional, had more contacts than anyone Lambert had ever worked with, but this was as much as he’d ever seen of Tillman’s personal side. With the drink flowing, he sensed an opportunity.

  ‘It was an oversight,’ said Kirby, receiving a warning glance form Tillman.

  ‘There was no oversight. We’d interviewed Wyatt like we’d interviewed all their friends. There was no way of knowing,’ said Tillman.

  Lambert rarely heard his boss sounding defensive. ‘What tipped you off?’

  Tillman and the two retired officers exchanged looks, whilst Hogg sipped at his whisky. Lambert could tell by Tillman’s pained expression he didn’t want to talk further but risked the appearance of being weak if he backed down now in front of his friends. ‘Simon Travis.’

  ‘Travis?’

  ‘He was a forensic psychologist who’d been assigned to the department. Suggested we start looking for potential suspects who had an affinity with water, who’d possibly suffered some trauma. It was a fluke really. All the girls were members of this bloody rowing club so we didn’t know where to start. Then we spotted that Wyatt’s mother had drowned when he was a child. Travis agreed this may have acted as a catalyst, and that our original questioning of him could have been more detailed.’

  ‘Even then we didn’t believe it,’ said Devlin.

  Tillman frowned at his former colleague as if he’d spoken out of turn. ‘The club was meeting that night. I went down to see them only to be told that Wyatt and Alice had headed off together.’

  ‘Funny how things work out,’ said Hogg.

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ said Tillman to the journalist, a gnarled vein prominent on his forehead.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything. I’m just suggesting that if you’d been any later you wouldn’t have caught them and Alice wouldn’t be alive.’

  Tillman didn’t look placated. Lambert wondered what had so riled his superior, and where the animosity towards the journalist came from. ‘I found them by an old boathouse. He had her by the throat in the water. He was weak at that point so it was easy enough to drag him off her. Claimed it was an accident, can you believe that? He was holding her under the water and still claimed it was an accident,’ said Tillman, filling his glass and taking another mouthful of whisky as if it was medicine.

  ‘We should have put him out of his misery,’ said Kirby.

  Tillman glanced at Lambert as if embarrassed by Kirby’s outburst. ‘He got what he deserved.’

  The call came in an hour later. Lambert watched the tension build in Tillman’s face, growing steady as he listened to the bad news. He hung up without speaking, launching the phone into the row of optics behind the bar. Somehow the phone bounced off the glass bottles and landed without smashing on the floor. Tillman hurdled over the bar after it, and ripped a bottle of single malt from the optic holder swigging from it as if it was water.

  ‘It won’t be official for two weeks,’ he said. ‘But they’re going to release Wyatt on parole.’

  1

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Chief Superintendent Tillman’s former boss, a wily old soak by the name of Jenkins, had often liked to hypothesise on defining moments. For Jenkins, his defining moment had been leaving his wife and children. ‘It’s been the making of me,’ he’d told Tillman, one smoke-filled night in the old bar close to Scotland Yard where Tillman had spent the majority of his twenties.

  Jenkins had delusions of grandeur, believing his role in the Met to have had much greater significance than it did. He’d retired ten years later, overweight and alone. Yet, his words haunted Tillman as he walked the unlit street back to his flat. Had his defining moment occurred twenty-four years ago by the bank of the Thames? He’d had choices then and, although he cared little for regrets, he thought now that maybe he’d made the wrong decision.

  Joseph Wyatt had disappeared six months after his release and now Devlin and Kirby were dead. Tillman was in charge of the hunt for Wyatt but he feared that was about to change. He had a meeting with the Chief Constable tomorrow morning and suspected the case was going to be taken from him. It was a wonder he’d held onto it for so long. He was the obvious next victim and had been forced to turn down the offer of protection on a number of occasions since Kirby’s body was discovered three weeks ago.

  He hated feeling this way. Usually he would walk through the shortcut near his flat without a second thought. He didn’t think Wyatt would attack him - he had no real reason - yet he waited for the former prisoner around every corner.

  More annoyed than scared, Tillman cursed the way his hand flinched, and his heart started beating harder, when a fox surprised him by scurrying out from the shadows.

  Crossing the road, relieved to be under the streetlights, Tillman took his front door key from his pocket. His gaze distracted by a light shining against the pane of the front window, he thought back to that night. Maybe Devlin and Kirby had been right after all. If he’d only listened back then they wouldn’t be dead, and he wouldn’t be acting like a coward.

  You had to hand it to Wyatt. He’d fooled them all and now this coup de grace. He’d killed both Devlin and Kirby by drowning, after keeping them captive for exactly seven days. It was a perfect irony though perhaps not in the way everyone else thought. Devlin and Kirby had taken a secret with them to their watery grave, one only Wyatt, Tillman, and one other now knew.

  The presumption was that Wyatt came after the two former officers because they’d been the ones who’d arrested him.

  However, Tillman knew different, and that was why he was surprised to see the man emerge from the shadows and plunge the syringe in his neck before he had a chance to
respond.

  2

  Lambert received the summons at eight am, a coded message on his phone instructing him to get to the office immediately. Lambert swore to himself as he took a swig of lukewarm coffee.

  ‘What did you say, Daddy?’ asked Chloe, his five year old daughter.

  ‘You have the ears of a bat,’ said Lambert.

  ‘A bat?’ said Chloe, biting down on a piece of toast as she studied her father.

  ‘It’s a saying,’ said Lambert, scrolling through the address book on his phone. Chloe wasn't due at school for another hour and his wife, Sophie, had already left for work. ‘Listen, darling, I’m going to have to drop you off early at school.’

  ‘What?’ said Chloe, her incredulity making Lambert smile.

  ‘They have that breakfast club thing, don’t they? I’m really sorry but they need me at work.’

  Chloe glared at him. Even aged five, he couldn’t tell always tell when she was truly angry or just playing games with me. ‘You owe me,’ she said, leaving the table and pulling her coat on.

  ‘Owe you? Where did you hear that?’

  ‘You said it to Mummy the other night,’ said Chloe, pleased with herself.

  Lambert sighed. ‘Like a bat,’ he said, shaking his head.

  It was ninety minutes before he reached the tube station at Angel in Islington. It was an early spring morning, the sun beginning to burn through the clouds. Lambert called Tillman on the way in but his phone had gone straight to answerphone.