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  ‘When you work it out, come alone or May dies.’

  The note wasn’t signed but he knew it was from Hastings.

  Lambert placed the note inside a plastic bag. He fixed the front door as best as he could and jammed the chair up against it once more. He retreated to his office. He wanted to stop everything, call in Bardsley and Nielson and mourn for his best friend, but he had to keep going.

  Sarah May was alive, and the note had warned him to come alone.

  Lambert closed his eyes as something clicked in his brain. ‘It can’t be,’ he whispered to himself, a memory returning. He tripped over his feet leaving the office, and sprinted downstairs. He raced to the living room. ‘Where is it?’ he shouted, searching through the bookshelf. Books were stored on a purchase by purchase basis. Hundreds of them adorned his office, hundreds more spread out throughout the house. He scanned the spines looking for the surname he wanted. Eventually he located the title.

  Kill Time.

  His hands trembled as he opened the front cover. He checked the inscription. The handwriting was identical.

  To Michael,

  Best wishes,

  Julian Hastings.

  He collapsed onto his chair, his grip tight on the book. He opened the next page and everything became clear. The answer had been there all the time. He scrolled down to the second paragraph of the acknowledgements page. A simple note he’d read years before. Something which had lodged in his mind and had remained dormant for all this time.

  Special thanks to Mr Campbell for all his help.

  A sense of calm came over Lambert. Hastings lived in a little village near Orpington, Kent, less than thirty minutes away.

  Come alone or May dies.

  Nothing suggested Hastings didn’t mean exactly what he said. To have carried out so many murders over such a number of years required intricate planning and discipline. It was not a chance Lambert could take. He sent another time-delayed email to Tillman telling him what he’d discovered and where he was going.

  He changed, pulling on a thick black overcoat to conceal the Glock, and went downstairs. He opened the front door, surprised by the darkness of night, in time to see DCI Nielson stepping out of an unmarked police car, followed closely by two junior detectives. Lambert pulled the door shut and stood facing out to the road, his back against the door, hiding the damage to the lock. The Glock weighed heavy in its holster. Although concealed, it felt conspicuous as if it pointed out of his jacket.

  ‘Going somewhere, Mr Lambert?’ said Nielson.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Maybe we could go inside for a quick chat. You haven’t been answering your phone.’

  Thankfully his phone was in his trouser pocket so he didn’t have to open his jacket. The screen displayed twelve missed calls. In the excitement of discovering Hastings was the killer, he hadn’t noticed his phone was switched to silent.

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry. On silent,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Have you made contact with Mr Klatzky?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m going to try a few more bars now.’

  ‘Let’s go in and talk.’

  ‘I told you, I’m heading out,’ said Lambert, trying to control his breathing.

  ‘You’re not hiding Mr Klatzky in there are you? I know you two are close.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Nielson.’

  ‘Just put my mind at rest, Mr Lambert.’

  ‘You can get a fucking warrant, Nielson, if you want to waste my time. Why would I lie to you?’

  There’d be no explaining Klatzky’s body, at least not immediately. And with the gun inside his jacket, he’d be arrested. He made a decision. If Nielson was going to pursue the matter he would have to use the gun. It was the only way to ensure Sarah May’s safety.

  Nielson clicked his tongue onto the roof of his mouth, swayed on the balls of his feet. He exchanged glances with his colleagues, who stared at Lambert as if they could possibly intimidate him.

  ‘We’re supposed to be working together on this,’ said Nielson. He sounded like he didn’t believe his own words.

  ‘Well then, let me do my part of the job,’ said Lambert. His back was still flat against the front door. He intended to stay there until the policemen left.

  Nielson’s facial muscles twitched as he decided his next move. ‘DNA found at the crime scenes of Terrence Haydon, Sandra Hopkins, Sam Burnham, Kwasi Olumide and Lance Crosby all match that of Campbell,’ he said, as if Lambert didn’t already know.

  ‘Result,’ said Lambert. ‘Do we know who he is yet?’

  ‘Working on it. Two things outstanding. Our missing DI, and your missing friend.’

  ‘You’re the one who let him go.’

  ‘We have some more questions for him.’

  ‘I’ll let you know if I hear from him, I promise,’ said Lambert, the image of Klatzky’s lifeless corpse springing into his mind. ‘I want to find Sarah as much as you do.’

  Nielson returned to his car. He opened the window and stared at Lambert. He went to say something else, and stopped, shaking his hand before the car pulled away.

  Lambert waited ten minutes. From Sophie’s car he called Tillman.

  ‘What now?’ said Tillman.

  Lambert told him about Klatzky. ‘I need the house secure,’ he said.

  ‘You need it secure. You mean you want it cleaned?’ asked Tillman.

  ‘No I don’t want it clean, it’s a crime scene. I want to keep it as such but I need some time. I don’t want Nielson in there causing trouble.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Send a couple of people around to protect the entrance. Make sure Nielson doesn’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘And in the meantime where are you going?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ said Lambert, hanging up.

  He took the SIM card from his phone and began driving towards Orpington. A couple of miles into the journey he threw the SIM card out of the window, a mile later the phone followed.

  He knew the area well. He took an old shortcut through the woods until he was on the A20. He passed the hospital where he’d been born nearly forty years ago. His mind focused totally on Hastings and Sarah May. He took the turn into Farnham village and opened the driver side window, hoping a blast of fresh air would ease his exhaustion.

  The satnav guided him through a labyrinth of lanes. The adrenalin which had fuelled him back at the house had dissipated. He’d managed one or two hours’ sleep last night, and hadn’t slept well for days. Hastings’ house was less than half a mile away now. Lambert dropped a gear, the car accelerating through the night mist.

  Without warning his vision blurred.

  ‘Not again,’ he said. He took his foot off the accelerator as his vision filled with a thousand shades of fiery colour, but was too late.

  He was unconscious before the car hit the bank and span upside down into a ditch.

  Chapter 49

  Lambert slipped in and out of consciousness, his eyes unable to focus long enough on his predicament before he was dragged back under. The airbag had been deployed. His face was crushed up against it, his body pulled to his right as if the car had tilted over.

  Unconscious, he was back in the car with Chloe. It was two years ago and he was driving her late at night to her grandparents, Sophie’s parents. Like now, he hadn’t slept properly for weeks. In his dream, Chloe sat next to him, nine years old and full of life, full of a future she would never see.

  She was sulking. He’d wanted to wait until the morning to drive her but she’d insisted. It was that memory he’d never been able to shake. His beautiful, happy-go-lucky girl forever smiling, forever full of mischief and all he was left with was that one prominent memory. Of her sitting in the passenger seat, arms folded, her head turned away from him, a comical pout sketched onto her face.

  He awoke with a shudder. Confused, he called out Chloe’s name. His right leg ached, a sense of pressure building within him as if the weight of the wh
ole car was pinning him down. He closed his eyes and fell asleep again.

  They’d hardly talked on that journey. He’d made a few light-hearted attempts to get her back onside but she hadn’t even cracked a smile.

  The dream transformed him to the hospital bed where he’d lain in an enforced coma. His first words on waking had been, ‘Chloe.’ The look on Sophie’s mother’s face, sitting on the seat next to his bed, haunted him to this day. It was as if he’d stabbed her in the heart.

  ‘What?’ he mouthed, no sound leaving his throat.

  She’d dropped a few chipped ice cubes into his mouth, the liquid coating his mouth and throat for a second. ‘What?’ he repeated.

  She looked away and he understood.

  The dream took him to the funeral, the day a morphine dream. Scores of well-meaning condolences. Sophie’s parents unable to look him in the eye.

  Then he was back in their living room, Sophie sitting on the sofa, crying as videos of Chloe played out on the TV screen before her. He pictured his dream self in the doorway, too cowardly to look at the pictures, too selfish to comfort his wife.

  The memories continued.

  He sat in conversation with Glenn Tillman, being told he was on forced absence of leave. Back at the house, Sophie suggesting spare bedrooms. Her body tensing as he moved to touch her.

  Lambert knew he had to escape. He tried to open his eyes, to picture reality, but another image flashed before him.

  He was back in the car with Chloe, on a narrow country lane. Dark, no street lights. As soon as the first flicker appeared in his vision he’d slammed on the brakes. He’d been going too fast. The car careered into an SUV travelling in the other direction.

  The coroner’s verdict was accidental death. Chloe had died instantly. Her body crushed from the impact. He’d never had to identify her, had never seen her again. That sullen, comical pout the last thing he saw of her.

  He awoke again with a shudder, reality returning like a blow to the head. The dreams of Chloe lingered. He had to subdue them before he continued, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to continue.

  It was Sarah May who needed him now.

  His eyes struggled to acclimatise to the darkness. He sat in the driver’s seat trying to get his bearings. The windshield was cracked but not broken. His body was being pulled to the right so he presumed the car had been spun onto its side. He held tight onto the steering wheel with one hand, the deployed airbag pushed against his chest. With his left hand he unclicked the seatbelt, fighting the pull of gravity as his body fell to the right. He was scrunched up on his side, his face pushed against the cold glass of the driver’s door window. He tested all of his limbs in turn, everything in working order. It was going to take a while. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but knew rushing would be a false economy. Every part of him ached.

  He grabbed hold of the steering wheel and tried to wrench his legs free from their position beneath the dashboard. A sharp pain cut through his left shoulder and vibrated upwards causing a dense ache in his head. He fell back into the car. His left shoulder was tender to touch. Lambert reached beneath his coat with his right hand and searched for a wound. He couldn’t feel anything significant but his hand was laced with blood when he took it away. He placed his left hand beneath the driver’s chair and reclined it as far as it would go. He hoisted first his right, then his left leg onto the chair so his knees were facing the driver’s side door. Then he clenched his legs together with his hands and swivelled himself around so his back was against the door, his legs pointing upwards, the back of his knees resting on the gearbox.

  It was a strain to hold the position. He inched backwards so he was more or less lying on his back. He lay there exhausted. It was possible he could stand up and try to open the passenger side door but it would be difficult to hoist his body upwards without the door slamming down on him. The other option was smashing the windscreen. It was cracked already so a few good kicks should destroy it completely.

  He swivelled around again so he was in position. With his back against the driver’s chair he kicked at the windscreen. It broke on first impact, cracking into safety glass which he cleared with a second kick.

  With rapid breath, he cleared away as much glass as possible. He rested for a couple of minutes then clambered out into the night air, collapsing onto the ground next to the car. He reached into his jacket, thankful the gun was still in its holster.

  He was about to get to his feet when he heard movement behind him, the sound of feet crunching on hard ground. As he withdrew the gun, someone attacked him from behind, pinning him to the ground.

  It was a smart, economical move. Whoever held him had ferocious strength. Lambert tried to swing his elbow back but his arms were locked tight. From the shadows he heard the sound of a second person moving towards them. He jerked as something sharp stung his neck and the night, once more, went out of focus.

  Chapter 50

  A gunshot startled him awake.

  He was inside the house, his hands and legs expertly tied to a heavy steel-framed chair. Lambert blinked. The room was in pitch darkness. If there were any windows, they were covered in blackout blinds.

  He had no idea how long he’d been out. The delayed email was due to be sent to Tillman at nine a.m. It contained Hastings’ address, though it was possible he’d since been moved. He’d lost track of time. His inner clock suggested it was somewhere between six and seven a.m. If he could stall Hastings for two hours or more then there might be a chance.

  His left arm was covered in drying blood. Waves of pain swept over him as he moved his chin to prise open his jacket and see the extent of his wounds. Whatever Hastings had injected into his body was still present. The poison lingered in his blood, causing his muscles and joints to ache.

  His thoughts turned to Sarah May.

  ‘Hastings,’ he shouted. His voice reverberated in the hollow confines of the room. He swallowed, moved his tongue around his mouth, trying to generate saliva.

  ‘Hastings,’ he shouted again, louder this time, more insistent. He tried to wriggle free but each movement sent horrendous slices of pain through his body. If anything it only tightened the hold of the grips which held him in place.

  Lambert let out a wave of obscenities which concluded with the threat to kill his captor. He tried not to think about the gunshot he’d heard. He prayed it wasn’t for Sarah May.

  The door opened and light flooded the room. Hastings stood at the entrance, dressed immaculately in a three-piece suit, shirt and matching tie.

  ‘You gave us quite a scare there, Michael. The car accident was not part of the story.’

  ‘Even seeing you now, I can’t quite believe it,’ said Lambert.

  Hastings smiled, something Lambert could barely recall him doing before. ‘You’ve really let this thing drag on, haven’t you, Michael?’ he said.

  ‘Where’s Sarah?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘The gunshot?’

  ‘Oh no, that wasn’t for her. That was someone else.’ Hastings laughed, more animated than Lambert had ever seen him.

  ‘The man who grabbed me outside?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Correct.’ Hastings sat on the floor, and pushed his back against the wall.

  ‘Let me see Sarah,’ said Lambert.

  ‘In good time.’

  Lambert pursed his lips, and stared at the man who had duped him for twenty years. He wanted answers but didn’t want to give Hastings the satisfaction of telling his story. The how and the why weren’t relevant at the moment. He needed to focus on May. She was all that was left now.

  ‘You’re desperate to know, aren’t you?’

  Lambert didn’t respond. He needed to drag this out as long as possible, to give Tillman the chance to read his email. ‘Not as desperate as you are to tell me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not too worried about that. You’ll get to know my story soon, whether you want to or not. I’m in no rush to tell. I’ve kept it to myself all th
ese years. I can tell it’s eating you up. You want to know why I killed all those people. How I avoided detection. If I was in your position, I would be desperate to know the details.’

  ‘But you’re not in my position, are you?’

  ‘No, and I’m thankful for that, but I can save you.’ Hastings chuckled, the look on his face not changing. ‘There’s more though, isn’t there, Michael? You want to know why I singled you out. You want to know where it started. You’re doubting yourself. Wondering if this all began back at University with Billy Nolan. You think I might have planted the idea of you becoming a police officer into your head. That this was all one long-term plan to get to you. I can see you now, trawling your memory, that wonderful brain of yours, for an answer.’

  ‘I think you’re seeing things that aren’t there.’ Lambert had considered such things, but had quickly dismissed them. It was too elaborate, too coincidental. So many things had occurred outside Hastings’ control. Lambert didn’t doubt himself. It was possible that Hastings had wanted to get his attention with the Haydon killing but he refused to believe it was a twenty-year-old plan.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hastings, getting up off the floor. He walked towards Lambert and pushed his face towards him until their foreheads touched. A sourness emanated from him. Hastings traced his finger around Lambert’s eyes, Lambert trying hard not to show any sense of fear. ‘Though perhaps, you’re the one who is seeing things,’ said Hastings, his voice a deep growl.

  Hastings pushed Lambert’s head backwards and walked back towards the door. ‘Anyway,’ he said, his tone lightening. ‘I’ll give you some time to consider the matter.’

  He slammed the door shut, not looking back.

  The hours passed. Lambert tried a number of times to break the binds around his ankles and wrists to no avail. His whole left side throbbed. Every time he tried to shake his left leg, a wave of pain flooded his body. It was possible he had broken it in the accident, or that Hastings had done something to him in the interim.

  Tillman should have received his email by now. He tried to remain positive, focused on the task ahead. It would be too easy to dwell on the impossibility of the situation. He was locked in position, subject to Hastings’ will, and history told him that people in his situation rarely lived to tell the tale. Despite his best efforts, images from the Souljacker crime scenes appeared in his head. He fooled himself that the pain could be managed. He’d undergone interrogation training when joining The Group, but knew nothing could fully prepare him for what lay in store.