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  ‘Okay, I’d like that,’ he said, understanding how inadequate his words sounded. He sensed a distance between them, and feared it would only get bigger. As he opened the door to let her out, he saw Klatzky staggering down the street towards the house. The man meandered across the pavement, once walking into a parked car. He didn’t look up until May walked onto the street.

  Klatzky stopped. He swayed from side to side, at once pitiful and comical, his mouth wide open.

  Lambert stepped out onto the street and waved to Klatzky who lifted his arm in acknowledgment. ‘Simon,’ he shouted. He beckoned him over trying to keep his body language neutral. May kept close, keen not to startle the man.

  Klatzky continued staring at them blankly. He’d been drunk at the bar. He’d probably doubled his intake since then. Lambert could only imagine the unhinged thoughts going through his head. Klatzky inched forward like an errant puppy returning to its master.

  He was five yards away when May made a move for him. Smiling as she grabbed his arm, she twisted it behind his back, cuffed him, and began reading him his rights.

  Klatzky could barely talk. ‘What’s going on?’ he mouthed to Lambert, his words horrendously slurred as if he had a speech impediment.

  ‘I’ll get you a solicitor,’ said Lambert.

  ‘There’s some things you haven’t been telling us, Mr Klatzky,’ said May, calling for assistance.

  Chapter 37

  Sophie appeared as the riot van carted Klatzky away. May was getting into her car and Sophie nodded towards her as if they were acquaintances.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Lambert, as May pulled away.

  ‘What was that about? Are you kidding? You have noticed that a riot van has just turned up at our house and hauled away one of your friends.’

  ‘Good point. But you’re changing the subject. Did you know that woman?’

  ‘Your pretty little friend?’ asked Sophie, a hint of mischief in her voice.

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell you that you’re under some form of surveillance.’

  ‘She’s questioned you?’

  ‘Verifying some dates. Making sure you were safe and sound at home. Fortunately they matched up. What have you got yourself into, Mike?’

  Lambert didn’t know how to answer the question. He was convinced Klatzky was innocent and would have a suitable alibi for the killings. ‘I’m not sure. I need a drink. Fancy going for something to eat?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sophie, bemused.

  Lambert called a solicitor as they walked to one of the restaurants on the high street. Lambert wasn’t sure who he felt most betrayed by, Klatzky for his deception or May for investigating him behind his back. May was doing her job, and he supposed she didn’t have to question Sophie herself, but still he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that perhaps it had all been pretence. That she’d been toying with him ever since their first meeting.

  Before they were married, they had visited the Italian restaurant at least once a month. The owner knew both of them by name. He greeted them with his usual cheer, and ushered them to a table by the window. Lambert ordered a bottle of wine.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Sophie.

  The owner waited for a response. ‘I’ll get the bottle, anyway,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Sparkling water,’ said Sophie, looking at him in the way only she could. Assessing him, working out his mood, deciding what would be best to ask him. When he refused to discuss the case, she updated him on her latest developments at work.

  Lambert soon finished his second glass. ‘You sure you don’t want a glass?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine with water,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Come on, have a glass.’

  ‘You can have some more, I won’t tell,’ she said, laughing.

  Lambert poured another glass.

  ‘You can’t hold out all night,’ said Sophie.

  It was the second time in as many days he’d shared a meal with his wife. He wasn’t naïve enough to give any significance to the fact. He decided to enjoy their time together whilst it lasted.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. He told her about everything. How Klatzky had first shown him the photos a few days ago, and the trips to Bristol. It was a relief to unburden everything.

  ‘You don’t really think Simon is the killer?’ she asked.

  Lambert went to protest, then thought about all the people he’d helped bring to justice over the years. So many times he’d encountered friends and families oblivious to the crimes of their loved ones. How much did he really know about Klatzky? He’d withheld so much from him: his blind mother, Billy’s counselling sessions, his own counselling sessions at the church. Would he really be that surprised if Klatzky was revealed as the killer?

  ‘Simon barely functions. He doesn’t have the capacity for such things. Anyway, he was only seventeen or eighteen when Clive Hale was killed. I don’t buy it.’ Lambert took another drink, realising he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

  ‘You’re not going to let him back in the house are you?’

  ‘No. If they do release him I’ll help him get a hotel somewhere.’ He sensed it was all coming to an end. Either Klatzky would be charged, or the killer would be after him.

  ‘This means you’re back at work now?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Tillman has suggested I could return.’

  And?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  Lambert declined the offer of a second bottle from the owner. They skipped dessert, Lambert ordering a double espresso before asking for the bill.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ he asked Sophie outside the restaurant. ‘Are you coming home, or are you still at the hotel?’

  ‘Let’s go home for a bit,’ she said. She linked her arm around his, a shiver running through him. His pulse thumped in his neck. He was excited to be so close to his wife once more, but scared as well. The matter with the solicitor had yet to be resolved. He had known Sophie for most of his adult life and could sense she was withholding something. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.

  As they reached their street Lambert slowed the pace. They’d walked in silence, enjoying each other’s company, or perhaps preparing themselves for what lay ahead. Once through the door Lambert kissed her. Sophie stood with her arms by her sides not responding. They hadn’t kissed properly in the two years since Chloe’s death.

  Lambert continued undeterred, placing his hands on her cheeks waiting for a response. Time had never moved so slowly. Eventually she lifted her hands to his chest and began kissing him back.

  Lambert pulled her to her bedroom. ‘Here, okay?’ he said, embarrassed to have to ask permission to use her bedroom. She didn’t answer, frantically tearing at his clothes. Within seconds they were undressed on the bed together. She kissed him with a fury he’d never encountered from her before. She began biting his lip, pulling at his hair, her desperate movements arousing, yet somehow disturbing, as if she was trying to convince herself she really wanted him.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, holding her arms, pulling her face back from his.

  She began to cry. ‘I can’t, Michael,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I want to but I can’t.’

  Lambert dressed, his face reddening. He could feel his temper rising, though it was not directed at Sophie. He could understand how she felt. Whatever she’d told him, whatever she’d said in the counselling meetings they’d attended, deep down she still blamed him for Chloe’s death.

  He couldn’t blame her for that. It was his fault.

  Sophie climbed beneath the duvet, wrapped herself in its protective cover. Her face peered out from the top, pleading for his forgiveness.

  Fully-clothed, he sat next to her on the bed. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said.

  She touched his face, smiling between the occasional sob. He’d always loved the way she looked after she’d been crying, her red cheeks and soft eyes.

  ‘There’s somethi
ng else, Michael,’ she said, the tears flowing again.

  He may have loved the look of her after she’d been crying but crying itself was a different matter. It made him helpless. He wanted to put his arm around her, but after what had happened he didn’t know the boundaries. All he could do was sit and watch. Her face crumpled in despair.

  ‘What is it?’ he mouthed.

  She was unable to speak through the tears. It was over. He supposed he’d guessed as much at the restaurant. It was probably why he’d kissed her, because he hadn’t wanted to hear the words. He tried to make it easier on her. ‘You’re leaving me,’ he said, his words faltering.

  She cried again, shaking her head. Not to deny the fact but to suggest there was something else. In the end, she blurted the words out in a high-pitched yelp interspersed with sobs.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

  He froze as a shiver of pain ran through him. He pushed himself from the bed, nauseous, a dull ache in his chest. He hadn’t slept with Sophie since the accident. ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He turned from her, remembering her lift home the other evening with the solicitor. He pictured the man leaning towards her, Sophie rebuffing his advances. ‘Jeremy Taylor,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’ said Sophie.

  Lambert stared at her, tried not to picture her fucking the man in their house.

  ‘It was only the once. A couple of months back. An office party, I drank too much wine and he offered me a lift home. And…’

  Lambert held his hands up. ‘I don’t need to know the details.’

  ‘It was only the once, Michael. It’s the first time, since…’

  Lambert’s skin prickled with heat. He had no right to be upset over the infidelity. He’d slept with two women in the last two years. Once with one of the nurses who’d helped him back to full fitness after the accident, once with a woman he’d met at the local gym. That affair had lasted for two months. He didn’t know if Sophie had ever known but she’d never said anything.

  ‘Have you told him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Lambert’s eyes filled. ‘You’re going to keep it?’ he said, softly.

  ‘Boy or girl, it won’t replace Chloe,’ said Sophie. She untangled herself from the covers and moved towards him but Lambert turned his back.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, and left the room.

  He heard her leave the house ten minutes later. By which time he was already on his second glass of red wine. She’d said goodbye to him as she’d left and he’d waved back unable to speak. He hoped she understood that he didn’t blame her. It was none of his business who she slept with, and if she’d fallen pregnant so be it.

  Yet it felt like a death, like Chloe dying all over again. He stumbled to the drinks cabinet and opened a bottle of vodka. He rarely touched spirits but he needed something to numb the pain. He poured a generous measure into a wine glass and sipped at the drink, wincing as the sharp liquid burned his throat.

  He hadn’t cried when Chloe had died. He only found out about it two days after the accident. Two days he’d spent unconscious. Sophie’s mother had been the one to tell him, Sophie too wrapped up in her grief and, Lambert presumed, hatred for him to tell him herself.

  He’d been unable to process the information at first. He knew all about the stages of grieving. He’d informed people before of the death of their loved ones. He’d always thought that maybe he’d react differently. Maybe he’d be able to handle it, or at least understand what he was being told.

  ‘Utter bullshit,’ he shouted into the empty air of the living room. How could his baby girl have died? Why was he still alive? Now with Sophie leaving and being pregnant everything came back to him. The trauma of the time, the bitterness of their lives, the rage he stored within him. He stood and threw the wine glass at the wall.

  How could he have let things get to this? Chloe was dead. Sophie had left him. One of his old best friends was currently under arrest, and was possibly linked to the murder of another friend. Whilst Lambert, formally a Chief Inspector, was without a job, sitting in the dark in his living room feeling sorry for himself.

  He attacked the drinks cabinet, smashing the bottles one by one against the wall. He screamed, a strange guttural sound he’d never heard escaping from his mouth. Then, as quickly as he’d begun, he stopped.

  Stepping over the broken glass, and the merged rivers of whiskey and gin, he picked up the red wine bottle and began to gulp greedily from its neck. Once finished, he opened a second bottle and returned to the sofa. Using the remote he turned on the stereo and synced it with the music on his iPhone.

  His last memory was of broken snippets from an ancient Joe Jackson song, and the noise of an empty bottle of wine rattling on the wooden floorboards.

  Chapter 38

  They decided to wait until morning to interview Klatzky. The man was in no state for questioning. He was unable to stand, his slurred speech incomprehensible.

  May spent most of the evening at the Lewisham station, working with Nielson and his team. Nielson set up a conference call with Superintendent Rush and her team back in Bristol, and Bardsley’s team in Watford. With the new information on Billy Nolan’s counsellor, they began working on the hypothesis that the Souljacker was responsible for the death of Samuel Burnham and Kwasi Olumide.

  There were two main suspects: Klatzky, drunk in the cells, and a man called Campbell, a man they knew nothing about.

  ‘I think you should be the one to speak to Klatzky tomorrow,’ said Nielson to May.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Nielson’s team were affable enough. May worked through a possible line of questioning with Nielson, and a young DC, Rebecca Shah. May tried to piece everything together in her head. The coincidence of Klatzky’s blind mother, blind dead mother, had her preoccupied. Nothing concrete had yet appeared on the Campbell character. Everything was a little intangible, too in the air for May’s liking. DCI Bardsley had stated during the conference call that his department was calling in all local informants, trying to get a handle on who this Campbell was but from what they’d uncovered, the man was something of an enigma, while they had a real, live suspect in the cells.

  ‘Do you think Klatzky’s our man?’ said Shah.

  ‘I wish he were sober enough so we could find out. We need to find out what he knows about the counselling sessions Nolan attended. See what he knows about Campbell.’

  May had ordered Bradbury to pay Davidson and Landsdale another visit at the Gracelife church. It was a long shot but she wanted a physical description of Campbell, a facial composite if possible. Although, after twenty years she wasn’t getting her hopes up.

  ‘Just arrived for you,’ said Nielson, handing her a file.

  May opened the document, surprised to see the medical file of Martha Klatzky, Simon Klatzky’s mother. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get used to it,’ said Nielson.

  Martha Klatzky had been diagnosed with cancer when Klatzky was twelve, two years after his father had died. She lost her sight two years later. May didn’t want to dwell on what that would do to a person. According to the file, the council appointed a carer to look after the woman at her home on a part-time basis whilst Simon Klatzky attended school. She died at a hospice the year before Klatzky started University with Lambert and Billy Nolan. The same year Clive Hale became the first Souljacker victim.

  ‘We need to get someone over to the hospice. Get some background on the mother, on the young Simon Klatzky.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Nielson. ‘Let’s see what we get from him in the morning and we can go from there. You should think about wrapping up now. Get some rest.’

  ‘Sir,’ said May.

  May still had a locker from the last time she’d visited the station. She’d filled it with spare clothes for such an occasion. She took the bag she’d packed, and walked down the empty staircase to the front of the s
tation. After saying goodnight to the duty sergeant, she walked out into the cold evening air of Lewisham.

  It had been a long day. She rubbed her tense neck deciding to walk the two miles to her hotel in Blackheath. She considered calling Lambert, convincing herself that it would be polite to update him on the case. She needed some company but contacting him now would be unprofessional.

  The town was alive with people, busy enjoying themselves oblivious to her troubles. She considered entering a bar for a quick drink. She had a need to be surrounded by people, by normality. She spotted a small bar, The Old Pier Tavern, on the main road out of Lewisham towards Blackheath. From the outside, it had the appearance of an old, traditional pub. The kind she imagined spending lazy Sunday afternoons in.

  She was about to cross the street for a closer look when she saw him.

  He stood in front of a shop window, staring at a display of flat screen televisions. Sean made a poor job of surveillance. May couldn’t believe he’d followed her to London. And worse, that she’d not spotted him before. When she’d last seen him, she’d promised to arrest him if he came within five hundred metres of him. But now he was here, she lacked the energy. She still didn’t consider him a threat. Physically, at least, she was more than a match for him.

  She walked on, checking his following figure with her periphery vision, occasionally losing him in the shadows. She turned left at the Lee Green crossroads, and began walking up the hill to Blackheath.

  She upped her pace remembering the fall out after the abortion. It started when she’d first told him she planned to terminate the pregnancy. They’d arranged to meet at the local park. It was a summer evening and they took a spot behind an enclave of trees. A place they’d been together before. May had initially thought he’d understand. He was mature for his age. He’d never tried to rush her into sex the way some of the other boys in her class had, was always considerate of her feelings. She realised it would be painful for him, as it was for her, but she’d never expected his response.