Dead Eyed Page 13

  ‘If I give you the money, then our agreement is permanent. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You understand or you don’t.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘I will give you the money, and you will work for me.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Lance. ‘What sort of work will I be doing?’

  Campbell grinned, the humour momentarily spreading to his eyes. ‘I don’t normally provide a detailed job description. You will be given minor and major duties, some of which may not be pleasant. You will stop working for me when you have repaid the debt. The terms are non-negotiable.’

  Five years later, and he’d nearly repaid the debt. In that time, he’d acted as a go-between for people who wanted to use Campbell’s services, filtering out the time-wasters and the investigators. Of the so-called major jobs, the worse had been the removal of a body following one of Campbell’s lengthy interrogations, the easiest his present journey with the drugged man in the back of his car.

  He’d seen the occasional person cross Campbell. The response was always the same: swift and savage. What had kept him going during the last five years were those people who had been permitted to leave Campbell’s orbit. The workers who’d paid off their debt left unhurt. They could never truly feel completely free, but the possibility of leaving was a real one.

  Lance’s instructions were to head off the M4 at junction four and head for one of the safe houses in Uxbridge. He was approaching the junction when a call came through.

  ‘Change of plan.’ Campbell’s voice boomed through the car’s Bluetooth system.

  ‘Sir?’

  It was unusual for Campbell to call him directly, and Lance sat upright in the car as if under surveillance.

  ‘It’s Mr Klatzky’s lucky day. Dump him somewhere in London. Alive.’

  ‘But he’s seen me, sir.’

  There was a pause on the other end. Lance sensed the man’s impatience and regretted having spoken out of turn.

  ‘Let him see,’ said Campbell, hanging up.

  Chapter 20

  He’d immediately regretted not following May inside. If she’d been upset, she’d hid it well. She’d kissed him on the cheek and walked inside the hotel, leaving him abandoned at the hotel entrance. He’d almost followed her through the hotel doors. It had been years since he’d had such an instant attraction to someone, and the attraction seemed to be reciprocated, but it would have been a mistake. They were going to be working together and the last thing they needed was a further complication.

  The scent of vanilla lingered on his skin from where she’d kissed him goodnight. He thought of nothing else as he walked home. He stopped at least three times, and considered returning to the hotel. He pictured her waiting for him in her room. Then his thoughts became clouded with thoughts of Sophie. Although effectively separated, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for what had nearly happened with May.

  It was after midnight. The main road which led from Bromley to Beckenham was empty, only the hum of the street lamps and the occasional passing vehicle keeping Lambert company. His training always kicked in at such times. With nothing else to do, he began memorising each car which drove past noting the digits on the number plates. Eventually, he reached Beckenham high street. A couple of bars were still open. He noticed the faces of the late-night revellers, took in their features as they stumbled along the street. He walked along Croydon Road, still checking each car on the route. As he turned into the side street where he lived a Jaguar XK8 with this year’s plates drove by. Lambert watched the car drive down the road admiring the shape of the vehicle. He paused as it stopped outside his house.

  He was three hundred yards away from the vehicle. He saw two figures in the car. Crossing the road, he edged along the path until he was close enough to see the silhouetted figure of his wife in the passenger seat. A pang of jealousy overcame him as he watched her talking to the car’s driver. He had no right to feel possessive. Their marriage was little more than a perfunctory agreement. They were simply flatmates sharing a mortgage and the bills, both trying to ignore the shared pain of loss.

  Acknowledging his hypocrisy after his evening with May, he walked past the car. He stopped fifty yards on and pretended to tie up his shoe laces, stealing glances at the two people in the car who were oblivious to his presence. His wife was in deep conversation with Jeremy Taylor, one of the partners at her law firm. The same partner she had dined with the evening Lambert had been in Bristol.

  Sophie laughed, tilting her head back to the left, a gesture he’d seen her doing thousands of times before, though previously only in response to him. Lambert knew he should stop watching. He was acting like a lovesick teenager, or worse still, a jealous, voyeuristic husband.

  They had stopped laughing and were both leaning slightly in towards each other. Lambert imagined the atmosphere within the confines of the car. His fingers involuntarily clenched as Taylor leant closer to his wife. For one horrendous second he thought he was going to witness his wife’s first kiss with her new lover. Despite his restricted viewpoint and the gloom of the poorly lit street, he saw Sophie hesitate. At the last second she darted her head to the right leaving Taylor nothing more than the soft flesh of her cheek.

  Lambert scurried away, as his wife opened the passenger door of the car. He walked the streets for another hour before returning home.

  He closed the front door as gently as possible, and climbed the stairs to the first floor. Sophie’s door was shut. What would happen if he knocked on the door, undressed and climbed into bed with her as he’d done for so many years before? Would she scream and demand that he leave, or would she edge close to him and allow him to stay for one more night? His left eye twitched, the lights appearing in the corners of his vision. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. He tiptoed upstairs to his own room before the hallucinations began. He collapsed on the bed. Fire-coloured specks danced before his eyes, a haze of colours merging into a violet blur. His breathing became heavy, his heart pulsating in his chest until his body eventually let go and he fell asleep.

  He was awake two hours later, the short period of sleep enough to have refreshed him. He switched on The System and began a number of sub-routines. He began with a search on DCI Nielson. The man had worked for the MIT out of Lewisham for the last four years and had been SIO on a number of high profile cases.

  Lambert grinned, noting that Nielson had instructed one of his DSs to check out Lambert’s background, and to assess his link with the latest Souljacker victims. It was a logical move. Lambert was linked to Billy Nolan and Terrence Haydon, and the latest victim was killed less than two miles from his house. It would have made sense for Nielson to have discussed the issue with DI May, as her officers were running a similar investigation at that time. He was less amused to see Simon Klatzky’s name again, the red line for the outstanding arrest warrant prominent on the screen.

  Lambert opened Klatzky’s file. He searched through a list of misdemeanours his friend had committed over the last ten years. Each one was the result of excessive drinking.

  What Nielson didn’t know was that someone had sent Klatzky the crime scene photos of Haydon’s murder. He needed to speak to Klatzky. The last time he’d seen the man had been in the hotel room in Bristol where he’d been comatose, vomit bubbling from his mouth and trickling down his chin. It was too early in the morning to call again. He was probably lost in some bar nursing a drink with the money Lambert had given him.

  Lambert was about to look through the Haydon case once more when the sound of a soft thud diverted his attention. He shut off the computer screens and listened. He heard it again, the sound growing in volume and intensity. Somebody was pounding on his front door. A wild, uncontrolled banging as if they were smacking their knuckles against the wood. It was four-thirty a.m.

  Lambert took a set of keys from his coat pocket and unlocked the bottom left drawer of his desk. He removed the Mark 3 knife he’d been issue
d when working for The Group, and began running down the stairs.

  A high-pitched scream stopped him before he’d reached the bottom of the first stairwell.

  Chapter 21

  ‘Jesus Christ, Michael.’ Sophie stood outside her bedroom door wrapped in a silk kimono dressing gown. ‘I didn’t know you were coming back today,’ she said, regaining her composure.

  ‘Obviously not,’ said Lambert. ‘Sorry, I did try calling you.’ They stared at each other, stuck in a stand-off as the banging from the front door grew in intensity. ‘You going to answer that?’ she said, her eyes glued on the knife by his side.

  ‘Maybe you should go back inside,’ said Lambert, gesturing to her room. He turned off the hallway light and walked downstairs. ‘Who is it?’ he shouted.

  The banging stopped. From outside he heard a familiar voice. ‘Mikey?’ it questioned, half pleading, half accusing.

  Lambert opened the door and Klatzky fell through the threshold. Lambert held out his arm to stop the man smashing his face on the wooden floorboards. He hoisted Klatzky onto his feet and held him against the wall as he slammed the door shut. Klatzky was drenched, his hair matted across his forehead. Lambert turned away from the stench and wiped his hand on his trouser leg.

  ‘What the hell, Mikey?’ slurred Klatzky.

  Lambert stood with his legs planted wide, every muscle in his body tensed. The pressure of the last two days swelled up and he punched Klatzky full force in the stomach, the soft flesh yielding under the pressure of the blow.

  Klatzky collapsed to the floor with a groan. Lambert considered following it with a kick but noticed Sophie glaring down at him from the top of the stairs, hand on hips. ‘What’s going on, Mike?’ She didn’t look scared, only annoyed.

  ‘Nothing. It’s Simon. He’s pissed out of his head. Go to bed and I’ll sort it.’

  She remained for a second, silent.

  ‘I’ll sort it,’ he said, softer this time.

  She sighed and left him to it.

  Klatzky began coughing. Yellow dribble fell from his mouth and congealed on his stubble. ‘How could you do that, Mikey?’ he mouthed in short gasps, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

  ‘Its four-thirty, Simon, and you’re banging on my door like an idiot. What did you expect, a warm embrace?’

  Klatzky adjusted his position, pushing himself off the floor until he sat at a lopsided angle, his back slouched against the hallway wall. ‘I’m not talking about that. I mean the little deal with your psychotic limo driver.’

  Lambert rubbed his eyes. ‘Jesus, Simon, what have you being taking?’

  ‘The driver you sent to collect me from the hotel in Bristol.’

  ‘You think I have my own driver?’

  ‘Someone picked me up. Silver Mercedes CLK. He told me you’d arranged for him to drive me back from Bristol.’ Klatzky tried to get to his feet but collapsed back to the floor, groaning as he fell.

  ‘Come on, Si. Is this a joke?’

  Klatzky waved his right index finger in front of his face. ‘I shit you not,’ he said, the faintest smile forming on his face.

  The humour was short-lived. Lambert dragged him into the living room and switched on a table lamp. The light illuminated the ordered room. Two antique sofas faced each other. Klatzky collapsed onto one, his face darting to the numerous bookcases which served as the room’s decorations. ‘Right. What happened?’ said Lambert.

  Klatzky explained how he was approached by a man outside the hotel. ‘It sounded plausible. I thought you may have felt guilty about having had me kicked out of the hotel. Either that or you wanted to be totally sure I’d leave.’

  ‘Could you describe this driver?’

  ‘Maybe. No. I don’t know, Mikey. Didn’t you send him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Did you get the car’s number plate?’ asked Lambert, thinking about the Mercedes which had followed him through the streets of Bristol the night before.

  ‘No. I didn’t look. I just took the lift.’

  ‘What happened once he had picked you up?’

  Klatzky squirmed in his seat, curling into himself. ‘He gave me a drink.’

  ‘And you took it?’

  ‘I thought you’d sent him,’ said Klatzky, his voice rising. His eyes were continuously moving, darting around the room, snatching the occasional glance at Lambert.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I fell asleep. Next thing I know, I’m lying on the ground surrounded by dumpsters. I think he stuck something over my mouth. My lips hurt like hell.’

  The story was implausible but Lambert could see no reason why Klatzky would make it up. ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘It took me hours to find out I was in Uxbridge of all places. I had to hitch a ride here which believe me was not easy. What’s happening, Mikey? First the photos and now this. What do they want from me?’

  It was a good question. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me? Something about Billy or Terrence?’

  Klatzky shrugged.

  ‘Look, Si, I want to help you but if you’re holding something back then what can I do?’

  ‘Michael.’ Sophie was shouting from upstairs.

  ‘Think on,’ said Lambert, leaving the room.

  ‘He can’t stay here,’ said Sophie. She stood outside her room, her arms holding the slight kimono around her body. Despite the circumstances, Lambert felt the first rush of desire for his wife he’d had in months.

  ‘He’s in trouble, Soph, I need to help him.’

  ‘He’s a useless drunk.’

  ‘I know, but he wasn’t always that way. He’s not a bad guy. I’ll make sure he’s gone by tomorrow.’

  Sophie sighed, and leant towards him. Lambert’s pulse raced, his body stuck in position. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘But both of you please get to bed, I need to be up for work in a couple of hours.’

  Klatzky was asleep on the sofa by the time he came down again. His putrid smell overwhelmed the room. Lambert opened a window and adjusted Klatzky’s position on the sofa so he looked almost comfortable.

  Upstairs, he tried to reconcile what Klatzky had told him. First the photographs and now the mysterious lift. Someone was interested in Klatzky, or possibly Lambert himself. He flicked through The System, hoping for inspiration. He searched through recent incidents handled by Major Incident Teams. Text and visuals scrolled across the six screens in his office. A number of gang-related drug busts, two with fatalities. An armed robbery at a small local bank. A missing nine-year-old boy, last seen walking home alone from his school.

  He locked the screen as a particularly nasty image appeared: a father brutally murdered in his house by his wife and teenage daughter. The wife had poured a pot of boiling fat over the man’s head, and the girl had proceeded to stab the man repeatedly in the back with a kitchen knife. Lambert read the case notes, sickened by the instances of abuse seemingly ignored by social services. He’d seen it happen countless times before. The abuse eventually became too much. From the notes, it was unlikely that the mother and daughter would face prosecution.

  Lambert was about to switch The System off when another case caught his eye. He stopped the screen, amazed at what he was reading. With a click of his mouse, he printed off a set of case notes. He knew the SIO, DCI Josh Bardsley. He read the printed notes, examined the crime scene photos in detail.

  A corpse, captured from many angles.

  It was the face which held Lambert’s interest.

  More specifically the eyes, which had both been sealed shut.

  Chapter 22

  Lambert read the details on HOLMES. The victim, Samuel Burnham, had died two days ago. His eyes had been sealed shut with a thin line of thread. As in the Souljacker murders, the evidence suggested that the victim was alive during the procedure. In addition to sealing Burnham’s eyes, the killer had carved off the man’s lips.

  Lambert searched through the HOLMES entry once more. A connection on The System had already been made with the murder
s of Terrence Haydon, and Sandra Hopkins. Nielson had made contact with Bardsley, but nothing in the report linked the killings, other than the obvious.

  Sophie’s door creaked open downstairs. Lambert sprung off his chair and headed down to meet her.

  ‘Still up?’ she asked.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘There’s a surprise.’ She’d changed into her work clothes. Water from her hair, still wet from showering, dripped onto her cream blouse.

  ‘I wanted to apologise about last night.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Scaring you. Simon. I’ll get rid of him, I promise.’

  She shrugged and turned away. Halfway down the stairs she stopped, and with some kindness asked, ‘You know it is only two weeks away now, don’t you?’

  Lambert rubbed his cheeks, his palms massaging the prickly growth of his stubble. ‘I know,’ he said. He hadn’t forgotten about Chloe’s memorial service. It was not something he had to actively engage with. His daughter was constantly in his thoughts.

  ‘Whatever this is all about, don’t forget.’ She fixed him with the coldest of stares. He went to argue but she’d already turned away.

  He checked up on Klatzky and decided to let him sleep. He caught a taxi to May’s hotel, hoping he’d catch her before she went into the office. He wanted to discuss the killing he’d discovered on The System.

  She was in the hotel’s dining room, sharing a continental breakfast with Julian Hastings. Lambert wasn’t sure if the retired officer was tagging along to get material for one of his books, or was still hoping he could salvage some professional pride by helping to solve the case.

  ‘Good morning, Michael,’ said Hastings, as he approached. He stood to shake hands with Lambert.

  May glanced his way, betraying nothing about the previous evening.