Dead Lucky Page 6

  ‘Don’t mind, do you?’ DC Donald Walker took a seat opposite her. ‘How goes it Sergeant?’

  Walker had been a member of her team for over two years. Last year they had both competed for a vacant sergeant position. Matilda was sure Walker had never forgiven her for winning.

  ‘What do you want, Walker?’

  ‘Just checking how your work with Lambert is going. Is he treating you right?’

  Matilda sighed, deciding to get straight to the point. ‘Is this to do with the sergeant test again?’

  Walker fidgeted in his chair, picked at his infuriatingly manicured beard. ‘We all know how you got that position, Kennedy.’

  Matilda smiled. She’d attained the position through sheer hard work and results. Walker’s tendency to open his mouth before thinking was one of the reasons he’d yet to be promoted. She adopted her most patronising tone, knowing it would get to Walker. ‘Look, Don, I can’t help it that I was deemed to be the most suitable for the position. Maybe next time, yeah?’ She rolled her eyes upwards, enjoying Walker’s discomfort.

  Walker nodded his head a few times. ‘You should have taken me up on my offer that time, you wouldn’t be speaking to me like that if you had.’

  Matilda stared hard at the man. He was referring to the last Christmas party where he’d had too many mulled wines and had made a fumbled pass at her. ‘You were lucky I didn’t report you then. I’d watch what I said, if I were you.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Kennedy,’ he whispered through gritted teeth.

  Matilda took a bite of her congealed jacket potato, and looked down at her paper.

  Walked waited a beat and eventually took the hint.

  She watched him leave in her peripheral vision, not lifting her head until she was sure he’d left the canteen. She tensed her arm, noting her hand was trembling. She should report him. She’d heard whispers from a couple of other female officers that the Christmas party was not an isolated incident, but she had to be careful. However progressive the Met presented itself, it was still male dominated. Complaints of sexual harassment were treated seriously, but there was always the risk of being ostracised. The worst he’d done to her was make a silly pass, which hadn’t bothered her that much. It was not enough to take it further, but she couldn’t help thinking that his behaviour might escalate, if not with her then with someone else.

  Lambert called, distracting her. They agreed to meet at Lordship Lane in two hours. She returned to the office, and was about to start researching Charles Robinson when a booming voice called to her from the other end of the room.

  ‘Sergeant Kennedy. My office. Now,’ said Tillman.

  Chapter 10

  Lambert stopped at a newsagent on Lordship Lane and purchased a bottle of water. The weather was relentless. The brief rainstorm earlier had done little to dampen the heat. His cotton shirt stuck to his body like a second skin. He downed the water in one and headed to the library. He kept getting the sense that the case was splintering in numerous directions, none of which were helping him. In cases like this, immediate family were normally where a case began and ended. Moira’s only family was Eustace and at the moment, Lambert couldn’t see him being involved. It was too complicated a set-up. If he’d wanted to eliminate his wife, for whatever reason, then it could have been done more easily. As a crime journalist, Eustace would have arranged things differently.

  Not that they could eliminate him completely. Eustace knew about his wife’s adultery so there was a potential motive. It was possible that he could have paid someone to commit the crime, and paid extra to be able to watch. Lambert had encountered similar scenarios before. Eustace was full of grief but Lambert had seen plenty of guilty men grieve for their actions.

  Kennedy had changed clothing since this morning. Gone was the plain trouser suit, in its place a green summer dress. Her red hair was still tied neatly in a bun, and when she greeted him he noticed she wore more make up than usual.

  ‘Something I should know?’

  She screwed up her face, confused.

  ‘I didn’t realise we were dressing up,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Oh.’ A flash of colour spread over her cheeks and faded.

  Lambert held up his hands. ‘I’m making no comment, Sergeant,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Off to see a friend afterwards. Unless we have more work,’ she added, as a reluctant afterthought.

  ‘I’m sure we can spare you for one evening,’ he said, moving past her into the entrance of the library trying to ignore the faint scent of her perfume.

  He was surprised to find the library full of people. The atmosphere inside was stifled. People sat at desks battling away at their laptops or reading newspapers and periodicals. Lambert made his way over to the enquiries desk, trying to ignore the stench of body odour emanating from an elderly man who was reading an oversized print hardback. ‘I’m here to see Sandra Levinson,’ he said to the spectacle-wearing man behind the desk.

  The man squeezed the bridge of his nose, as if Lambert’s presence was an unwelcome distraction. ‘I believe she’s in her office. Up the stairs, through the door marked “do not enter”. Is she expecting you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Kennedy had called earlier, informing the head librarian about Moira Sackville. It seemed the woman had yet to tell her staff about their colleague’s tragic, and violent, death. Either that or Moira’s death had failed to touch the man behind the desk in anyway.

  ‘You lead,’ he told Kennedy as they knocked on the door.

  A striking woman with large opal eyes opened the door. ‘Hello?’ she said, her smile warm and compassionate, only the few fine lines under her eyes betraying her age.

  ‘Mrs Levinson? Sergeant Matilda Kennedy, we spoke on the phone earlier. This is DCI Michael Lambert.’

  The smile vanished, as Levinson realised why they were there. ‘Do come through,’ she said.

  The woman led them to a small office, little bigger than a broom cupboard, and asked them to sit. ‘I’m afraid I’m still coming to terms with what you told me this morning, Sergeant Kennedy. I’ve lived in London all my life and it’s the first time I’ve ever known someone…’ Her words drifted off, as if she’d finished the sentence in her mind.

  ‘Our sincere condolences, Mrs Levinson. Something like this is always a huge shock. There are people we can put you and your colleagues in touch with to help you through this time.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you know Moira well?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Yes,’ said Levinson, looking intently at him. ‘I’ve been working here for five years. Moira was here when I started. In fact, I was surprised at the time that she’d not been offered my position. She had a wealth of experience, and a passion for the place which has been unequalled since. She later confided that she hadn’t applied for the role, that she didn’t want the added burden of such responsibility. She will be sorely missed.’

  ‘Could you tell me a bit more about the person she was?’ asked Kennedy.

  Levinson turned to face Kennedy. Her look was intense. She focused on Matilda as if she was the only person in the room. If Kennedy was intimidated by the look, she didn’t show it.

  ‘As I mentioned, she was very passionate about the library. She was an avid reader, most of us are, as you can probably imagine. She loved helping people. There was a small band of elderly women who used to come see her every week for advice on what to read next.’

  ‘How did she get on with other members of staff?’ asked Lambert.

  Levinson turned her focus, her eyes boring into him. ‘Very well. We’re quite a close knit team.’

  ‘No animosity? Trouble with any of the library’s patrons?’ asked Kennedy.

  ‘Moira? You couldn’t wish to meet a lovelier person. In all my time here, I never heard a bad word said about her, or by her.’ Levinson had raised her tone, and sounded defensive.

  ‘Did you ever meet with her away from work?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘
Not really. We have the occasional social get-together, at Christmas, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her friends, or family?’

  ‘I met her husband once. Very jolly chap. He’s a journalist. I helped him with some research on local history.’

  ‘Did she ever confide in you?’ asked Kennedy.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘We didn’t really have that sort of relationship, I’m afraid. We were colleagues first, friends second. I wish I could help you, I really do. I can’t believe anyone would do this purposely to Moira. I mean, no one would single her out. I can only imagine it was random.’

  Lambert stood, uninterested as to the woman’s opinions on motive. ‘Thank you, Mrs Levinson, you’ve been a great help. We’ll be in contact tomorrow. Some officers will be over to speak to the members of your team. In the meantime, please let me know if you think of anything which may be of help,’ he said, handing over his card.

  ‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ said Kennedy, outside.

  ‘Nothing is a waste of time. We know now she didn’t socialise much with her colleagues. She loved books. Eustace was researching the local area. Any of those points may become relevant.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Kennedy, who was almost hopping on the spot with eagerness to get away.

  Lambert paused. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’

  Kennedy opened her mouth then shut it.

  ‘See you seven a.m. tomorrow morning.’

  Kennedy frowned. ‘Sir,’ she said, sticking her hand out for a passing taxi.

  Lambert caught a taxi home, too tired for public transport. Home was currently a bedsit in Lewisham. Sophie was keeping the house for the time being until they had formalised details of the separation. A wave of dampness and festering mould overcame him as he opened the communal front door. He could almost see the trapped hot air escape through the front door. He hauled his tired body up the stairs to his room, telling himself that it was only temporary.

  His room was oppressive. Although he’d left his window on the latch, his room was still stifling. He opened the window fully and allowed the minuscule breeze to cool him. A thousand thoughts played in his mind. He needed time to collate, analyse, and organise them as was his way, but first he needed to rest. His sleep pattern had never been normal, but now it was destroyed. He’d last slept late yesterday evening on the cold bench at the hospital. The lights had appeared then but despite his tiredness he didn’t think he would hallucinate tonight.

  He made a red bush tea, sat on the room’s sole chair and listened to Andy Shauf singing about falling asleep. He tried to attack each raging thought one at a time, but the images of the last twenty-four hours swam in his head in a grotesque collage: Moira Sackville’s crime scene, Eustace Sackville alone and distraught in a hospital bed, Sophie and the new baby, Matilda Kennedy setting off for an evening out. He imagined Sarah May was in London, wished that he could just call her and she would appear.

  He undressed, and climbed into bed, his thoughts returning to Eustace Sackville. He thought about what the man had been through, the death of his only family, and tried to think about how he must be feeling alone in his hospital bed. Then his thoughts moved on to Sophie and the new baby; how Chloe’s sister would never be part of his life, and he realised his and Eustace Sackville’s situation were not that different.

  Chapter 11

  She realised it was a mistake. She realised every time she did it. She’d half hoped last night that Lambert would have asked her to work later so she could have avoided it.

  She walked naked into the bathroom and switched on the shower. She searched through the cabinets but found only the most rudimentary of toiletries. It was unprofessional in more ways than one. She’d known from the moment she’d changed into the green dress, which had even received a note of assent from Lambert, that she would end up staying the night here. Yet she hadn’t even brought a change of clothes. Now she would have to go home and change. She turned off the shower, returned to the bedroom and put on her clothes.

  Tillman sat up in bed and looked at her. ‘Leaving already?’

  ‘Lambert’s scheduled a meeting for seven and I can hardly turn up in last night’s clothes.’ Her tone was short, and summed up their relationship. The nights of passion, followed by the mornings of regret. Tillman was barely covered by a thin sheet. She surveyed him as she dressed, intrigued by the vastness of his pale body. His large figure at once overweight but muscled, far from her normal choice in men. She was sleeping with the boss, something she’d always secretly belittled other women for doing, but there was something about the man which drew her in.

  Tillman rubbed his eyes. For a moment, she thought he was going to say something ridiculous, like she should leave some clothes at this place. ‘I’ll see you there,’ he said, rolling over on his side. She fought a wave of desire and left.

  She drove home, the evidence of last night’s excesses seeping through her pores. She needed food and coffee. At home, she ran the coffee maker and showered again – dousing herself in shower gel and shampoo, scrubbing her teeth clean with an evangelical zeal. She toasted a bagel, and burnt her throat washing it down with the scalding coffee.

  Devlin greeted her as she walked into the incident room five minutes early. ‘Sarge, a Mrs Levinson called last night. She wants to speak to you. Something she forgot to mention yesterday, she said.’

  Kennedy nodded, taking the note from him. She sat at her desk, glancing at Lambert who had seemingly not noticed her arrival.

  ‘Right, let’s get on with this,’ said Lambert, getting to his feet. He was dressed in a suit she hadn’t seen before. He looked surprisingly fresh, clean shaven, and bright eyed, as if he’d had a good night’s rest. He handed out duties with almost military-like precision. He ordered a re-examination of the CCTV footage, checked that the Whitfield lead was being followed up, and instructed two of the team to start trawling through Eustace Sackville’s past newspaper stories. ‘Anything, however minor, that stands out – then notify me immediately,’ he said.

  The meeting lasted less than twenty minutes.

  ‘Good night?’ he said to Matilda, after everyone had left the conference room. His eyebrows arched high, giving him a comical look.

  ‘It was fine, thank you,’ she replied, deadpan. She told him she planned to see Levinson again that morning.

  ‘Okay. I want you to visit Sackville after you’ve seen her. See if you can get anything from him. Maybe he’ll open up to you. Try to find out some more about his article research and his relationship to the Blake family. I’m planning to see Blake today. And push him some more on Robinson.’

  Matilda hesitated. ‘You’re going to see Blake alone?’

  Lambert faltered. She thought she saw something in him she hadn’t seen before. It was as if he’d let his guard slip for a second. ‘I think I’ll be safe. Keep me updated on what the librarian says.’

  Sandra Levinson was prowling the non-fiction floor of the library when Matilda arrived. Matilda watched her from a distance, taken once more by the woman’s beauty: the perfect symmetry of her face, and the elegant grace of her body. It was no exaggeration to suggest that the woman could have made a career in modelling.

  As if she’d known Matilda had been watching her all this time, the librarian turned to face her in a slow drawn out movement. Her face broke into a smile on seeing Matilda, the faintest of lines appearing to the side of her eyes. ‘Sergeant Kennedy, hello.’ She carried an edition of A Room of One’s Own, which she placed back on one of the bookshelves. ‘Could I buy you a coffee? I’m dying for a hit of caffeine. There’s a lovely little café down the road.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Matilda.

  Matilda noticed the appreciative looks Levinson received as they walked down Lordship Lane, as if she was accompanying someone famous. The woman either didn’t notice the stares, or was so used to them she didn’t bother commenting. ‘Let’s si
t outside, what can I get you?’

  ‘Let me,’ said Matilda.

  ‘Don’t be silly, I insist.’

  Matilda ordered a black coffee, and enjoyed the sunshine as she waited for Levinson to return. She presumed the journey would be a wasted one as she couldn’t imagine Levinson had the most devastating of news to tell her, but at least she could enjoy this one moment of pleasure.

  ‘There you go. I bought us some pastries, hope you don’t be mind.’

  Matilda’s mouth watered as she surveyed the crumbling flakes of the pains au chocolat. ‘Thank you. I won’t tell if you won’t. How are things at the library, how has everyone taken the news?’

  ‘It’s a little surreal. Naturally, everyone was shocked but I think it’s hard for them to accept the true extent of what has happened. Me included, I’m afraid. I keep looking at the entrance, somehow waiting for Moira to walk through.’

  ‘I understand completely. These things take time.’ Matilda took a bite of the pastry, a wave of guilt overcoming her as she savoured the melted chocolate within.

  ‘I really hope I haven’t wasted your time. It was when I told the team last night about Moira that I remembered something that happened a few months back. It was nothing really, but I thought it might help.’

  ‘Anything you can tell us could help. However trivial it might seem.’

  Levinson fell silent, her face taut in concentration. ‘There was a man. I would have thought nothing of it, if it hadn’t been for what he was wearing.’

  Matilda placed a hand on the woman’s arm, surprised by the feel of wiry muscle. ‘Slow down. Where was this man?’

  ‘He was hanging outside the library, nearly every morning when I came to work. Not directly outside but over the road.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A couple of months ago. March, April maybe. He was there every morning for a week. I should have notified the police but he wasn’t really doing anything except loitering. I would see him as I went into the library, and then I would check on him from my office window. He would sometimes just leave, but on one day he was there for a couple of hours.’