Dead Eyed Page 11

  Chapter 17

  Thirty minutes into the journey May realised she’d made another mistake.

  The first mistake had been inviting Lambert to the station that morning. She’d called him on a whim after meeting with Hastings who’d appeared at the station an hour earlier than planned. She’d wanted to see if Lambert could get anything out of the retired policeman who was proving at best elusive. Instead the conversation had unravelled as they discussed Klatzky. She could understand Lambert’s reaction and would have reprimanded Bradbury had it not been for the latest development.

  Her second mistake had been asking Hastings to accompany her on the journey to London. The news had come through that there had been another Souljacker victim. An incident team had been set up in London, and the SIO, DCI Nielson, had naturally contacted her once the similarities had been discovered. May had instructed Bradbury to stay and head the case during her absence.

  Hastings had hardly said a word since they’d set off, following a pattern he’d set earlier that morning. She’d heard more from him in the brief time Lambert had appeared at the station than the rest of the morning combined.

  Worse still, she hadn’t learnt anything more from him about the previous Souljacker murders she couldn’t have read in the file. His answers to her questions were monosyllabic, bordering on avoidant. She’d invited him to London because she thought he may have had some interesting thoughts on the new victim, and DCI Nielson had made the suggestion.

  The body of Sandra Hopkins had been found earlier that morning in a ground-floor flat in Sydenham, southeast London. The address was displayed on May’s satnav system.

  ‘Is that near to where you live, sir?’ she asked Hastings.

  ‘Right sort of area. Fifteen, twenty miles away.’

  ‘What do you know about the place?’

  ‘Sydenham ? Nothing much. Mixed, like most of London. It’s had its problems. Good transport links with Central London.’

  May sighed inwardly. ‘What do you think about this change of victim?’

  Hastings sat stiff-backed, his body pushed back against his seat. ‘I’ve been running it through my mind since we left Bristol. It doesn’t make any sense to me. All the previous Souljacker victims were male, aged twenty to thirty, and all the bodies had been found in south west England. This latest victim was a forty-two year old woman and her body is in London. Doesn’t ring true to me. I’ll be interested to see the victim.’

  ‘From the preliminary reports I received from London the MO was identical,’ said May.

  Hastings grunted. ‘If it’s him, why a woman? Why now?’

  May sensed the man’s frustration, knowing he’d been tracking the Souljacker since the first killings all those years ago. ‘I think it could possibly be a good thing,’ she said.

  Hastings sneered.

  ‘I think he wants to get caught. There’s a link between two of the victims, and now days later he kills a woman.’

  Hastings didn’t respond. He sat motionless, staring ahead through the windscreen.

  May continued, undeterred, thinking aloud. ‘My guess is this killing is personal. If so, we may find a motive. I would be surprised if there is not something that links this woman, Sandra Hopkins, with either one or both of Haydon and Nolan, and if not them one of the older victims.’

  ‘Quite a leap, Inspector. Let’s hope you’re right.’

  The drive continued in silence, broken only by Hastings’ laboured breathing.

  ‘I hope we didn’t cause you any embarrassment this morning,’ said May, for something to say.

  ‘How would I be embarrassed?’

  ‘With what happened with Michael Lambert. In retrospect I don’t think it was handled very well. Particularly not by DS Bradbury.’

  ‘I agree. You need to take more control of your officers.’

  May ignored the slight. ‘You seemed to get on well with Lambert?’

  Hastings turned to look at her, his face a mask devoid of emotion. What would he think if he knew she’d been out for dinner last night with Lambert? Her own feelings about it were jumbled. The evening had been a continuation of their lunchtime meeting. She’d enjoyed Lambert’s company, and only a small percentage of the time had been spent discussing the case.

  ‘I’ve known Michael on and off since that first time during the Nolan case.’

  ‘What was he like back then?’ asked May.

  ‘You could tell he was sharp straight off the bat. He was shaken up. They all were. But even then I recognised he had an eye for detail. Meticulous. He recalled things none of the others did. The exact detail of what Nolan had been wearing the last night they’d seen him. Little things about the room. Even what he’d seen of the corpse when he’d broken the door down. I don’t know if you’d call it a photographic memory, but he remembered the Latin inscription. The exact position of the body on the floor.’

  ‘What did that lead you to think?’ said May.

  ‘I never considered him a suspect if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I noticed his picture was on the board before he arrived this morning. You don’t seriously consider him a suspect do you?’

  May ignored the question. ‘He told me you put him up to joining the force.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Hastings, turning his gaze back to the road. ‘He asked me about it and I gave him an insight into what life is like.’

  ‘And he foolishly went ahead anyway,’ said May. She turned to look at Hastings. His upper lip rose a touch, the gesture something like a smile. ‘I don’t know when you last read his file but the last five or six years of it is pretty much blanked out.’

  ‘I can’t help you with that. I knew he was transferred to SOCA. Perhaps he was doing some undercover work for them.’

  ‘And the last two years?’

  Hastings bristled. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I’d heard some rumours but I didn’t want to ask him about it.’

  Hastings didn’t reply straight away, possibly debating what he should share with her. ‘I’ll tell you what’s public knowledge. There was an accident two years ago. Lambert was driving. His daughter was killed outright and he was hospitalised. He had to endure an enforced coma. Last time I saw him was at his daughter’s funeral. He was barely lucid then, still in a wheelchair. I don’t know the ins and outs of it but I believe a position in his old team is still open to him. I’d imagine he’d have to pass a psych evaluation, but as far as I’m aware the link has yet to be severed.’

  So it was true. His file had not stated why he was currently on leave and she’d only heard rumours. It was not the sort of thing she’d felt comfortable bringing up in conversation the previous night. She didn’t question Hastings further.

  They came off the M25 and took the A3 to the crime scene in Sydenham. The SIO, DCI Nielson, greeted them. Superintendent Rush had been at pains to point out to her that Nielson was in charge of the Sandra Hopkins case before she’d left Bristol.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ she’d asked.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I simply want you to remember that he will be the SIO. It’s his case, and he is a senior officer.’

  ‘You think I’m going to stroll into London and take over?’

  ‘No.’ He’d hesitated then. ‘Not exactly. But cooperation is the way forward on this. Assistant Chief Constable Regan will be overseeing the joint investigations. So don’t go causing a shit storm.’

  Motivating parting words were one of Rush’s specialties.

  May introduced Hastings to Nielson. The men shook hands. ‘Good to see you again, Charles,’ said Hastings.

  Ten years her senior, Nielson had the haircut of a Marine, and the body of a nightclub bouncer. Albeit, one who was slightly out of shape. His accent was East End London, almost comically so. ‘The SOCOs have cleared the crime scene. I have some pictures of the scene here,’ he said, handing her a computer tablet. ‘Let’s go
through to the room where the incident took place. You can match the pictures to the location.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said May, following.

  ‘You’ll be used to the smell,’ said Nielson, once inside.

  The smell. The sight. Used to it was perhaps not the best way to describe it. Remarkable as it seemed, considering the scene before her, and the pictures she held in her hand, she’d seen worse. She’d worked in the docks in Bristol for a period and had seen her share of mutilation, and decomposing bodies.

  One in particular had always stayed with her. Emily Sutton. A retired man found Sutton’s body on the banks of the River Avon, close to the Clifton Suspension Bridge. The man who’d been walking a dog, it was always someone walking a dog, had said he’d found the corpse and called it straight in. He apologised to May for the pool of vomit to the side of the body.

  The body lay in a puddle of mud, wrapped in a blanket sodden with filth. May remembered the texture of the blanket, the damp material, the stench of urine, as she removed it to uncover the body. The face would haunt her to her dying day. She’d been unable to tell the sex of the victim at the time. The face was hardly a face. It had two misshapen eyes, at misplaced angles to one other. Both cheek bones were smashed, as was the jaw. It was as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to the face, more than once. Reluctantly, May had reached towards the corpse’s neck, only to find the faintest of pulses.

  Somehow, unlike the figure in the images on the screen before her now, Emily Sutton survived. She’d undergone extensive facial reconstruction surgery and currently resided in an institute in North Bristol.

  Such miracles would not occur with Sandra Hopkins. The first picture showed her lifeless body lying on what was once a beige carpet at the foot of her bed. May looked away from the screen to the patch of maroon on the floor, a number of markers highlighting where Hopkins’ corpse had lain before it was discovered. May accustomed herself to the smell. She had learnt early on not to fight it, though she was trying as hard as possible to breathe through her mouth.

  She recognised the sickly smell of incense after a few seconds. It didn’t mask the gasses of the rotting body, it only highlighted them.

  ‘Sandra Hopkins,’ said Nielson. ‘Forty-two. Commercial solicitor. Worked out of Liverpool Street. The smell was reported after midnight last night by one of the tenants. A second tenant called early this morning.’

  The picture of what once was Sandra Hopkins lay at an awkward angle. A squat black woman, a little over five foot five, her naked body sprawled on the carpet. The Latin phrase, consistent with all the other victims, carved intricately into her bloated stomach. In oculis animus habitat. The soul dwells in the eyes.

  May could close her eyes and see the photos of every other Souljacker victim. They’d all been remarkably the same, the removal of the eyes creating an alien visage. The gaping holes made their other features indistinguishable. May looked again at the photos of Hopkins, a mop of black hair matted to her mangled face. If she’d been looking only at her face, May was not sure she would have realised Hopkins was female.

  ‘No sign of sexual molestation, or even signs of a struggle. From what I’ve read, it follows the pattern of the previous murders. There are two separate puncture wounds where the victim was injected. We believe she was alive, hopefully not conscious, until the carotid artery was slit. We’ll know more after the AR.’

  Hastings viewed the scene dispassionately. May handed him the tablet, and he flicked through the pictures, occasionally looking up at the crime scene. May wondered if he was thinking about Billy Nolan and the others. It was hard not to take it personally. It was possible he blamed himself for the death of Sandra Hopkins, saw her death as a result of him not catching the killer earlier.

  Hastings zoomed in on one of the pictures.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Nielson.

  ‘The carving on the body. It looks a bit off to me. Best check it with the others,’ said Hastings.

  May studied the image. The writing was harder to read on the black skin. The lettering was smaller but she thought it was the same as on the other victims. The Souljacker had carved the Latin onto the male victims’ chests. With Hopkins, he’d been forced to improvise, using the soft flesh of her stomach.

  ‘I guess the killer had a couple of objects he needed to work around this time,’ said Nielson, prompting a nervous giggle from one of the uniformed officers. Nielson cut it short with a glare. ‘We’ll get it checked immediately,’ he said to Hastings.

  May’s breathing returned to normal outside. Being in the small confines of Sandra Hopkins’ bedroom had been like entering a dislocated world. It was difficult to equate with the bright open space where May now stood. Nielson and Hastings hovered on either side of her, neither speaking.

  ‘We have a sighting of her entering the building yesterday evening,’ said Nielson, breaking the silence.

  May noticed the two uniformed officers had followed them outside, and stood a few metres behind Nielson like bodyguards.

  ‘A woman from across the street, Gail Lane. She was shutting her bedroom curtains last night, and happened to notice the victim entering the communal front door with a man.’

  ‘Did she know Hopkins?’ asked May.

  ‘Not to speak to but she’d seen her on occasions. They sometimes shared the same tube to work but had never talked to one another.’

  The dislocation of city life, thought May. Two people who saw each other most days, and couldn’t bring themselves to say hello. ‘What time did she see them?’

  ‘Approximately nine to nine-thirty p.m. Description of the man is vague at best. Tall, dark hair. Wearing a rain jacket. She only saw the back of him and it was dark.’

  ‘Anyone else in the flat see him come or go?’ asked Hastings.

  ‘Not that we are currently aware of. Most of the neighbours are still at work, so we’ll catch them this evening.’

  ‘Lovely scene to come home to,’ said May.

  ‘Looks like one of them is back early,’ said Nielson.

  Over to their left, a man was arguing with a young policeman who was guarding the police cordon tape.

  May looked over at the figure, and then at Hastings who raised his eyebrows in surprise. The most emotive he’d been all day.

  Chapter 18

  Three hours earlier, Lambert had left for London without Klatzky, who was not returning any of his calls.

  He’d spent twenty minutes negotiating the Bristol traffic and trying to contact Tillman. ‘Tell him it’s Lambert, for pity’s sake,’ he informed the third operative he’d spoken to, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if holding it in place.

  He was an hour along the motorway by the time Tillman returned his call. ‘This is not a secure line, is it?’ said Tillman.

  ‘No, but I have nothing secure to tell you.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need an update on the latest Souljacker murder.’

  ‘That’s not secure?’ asked Tillman.

  ‘It’s public knowledge, you have a professional interest.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Lambert, I couldn’t give two shits.’

  ‘I’m driving towards London. I need some detail.’ Over the years, Lambert had come to realise it was often best to ignore his superior. Tillman liked to reaffirm his authority but could be counted on to help out when necessary.

  ‘What is it exactly you need to know?’

  ‘He’s killed a woman.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘I’m beginning to regret giving you access to The System, Lambert. I’m trying to decide if you’re too close to this.’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking close to it, Glenn. You knew that before you gave me access.’ Lambert’s pulse quickened, a familiar rage threatening to reach the surface.

  ‘I’ve already heard some chatter from Bristol.’

  ‘Chatter? Fuck that, Glenn. Just tell me what you know.�
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  Tillman didn’t normally accept such insolence. Lambert imagined him on the other end of the line, debating if it was time to cut him off. Thinking about the favour he owed.

  ‘The victim is Sandra Hopkins. A solicitor. Her firm has offices in Bristol and London but she works out of the London office. Liverpool Street. She was found this morning by the caretaker at her block of flats.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Sydenham.’

  Lambert relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, his heart rate returning to normal. The car entered an average speed zone which he ignored, snaking in and out of the slowing traffic. The other drivers flashed their headlights, or made obscene hand gestures as if his speeding was the most important thing in their life. The car limped onwards, a reel of mundane green scenery playing out in Lambert’s peripheral vision.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll send you through the exact coordinates,’ said Tillman, hanging up.

  He agreed with Tillman that he was too close to the case and realised he had to detach himself emotionally. Lambert had spent his whole professional life looking at the small details. That was his expertise, why Tillman had recruited him for The Group. And the small details were not making much sense to him at the moment. There were too many discrepancies. It was not impossible that the killer had started again after so many years. It was also plausible that the long period of silence had caused the changes which had led to a female victim. Nevertheless, Lambert had a sense that things were a little too orchestrated. He’d been followed and attacked the previous evening, had possibly been under surveillance by the police in Bristol, and then there were the photos which had been sent to Klatzky. Someone wanted him involved in this case, for whatever reason, and he wasn’t sure at the moment who he could trust.

  It took him a further hour to reach south-east London. May was already at the crime scene. She was standing beyond the police tape, talking with Julian Hastings, and a second man.

  Hasting stood expressionless listening to the other man speak. In contrast, May’s body language was more open. She nodded as the man spoke, glanced at Hastings who remained passive.