Dead Eyed Page 9

  May rubbed her eyes. ‘There was a bit of fun last night on the Frenton Estate. Three men were involved in a fight.’

  ‘And that’s unusual?’

  ‘Obviously not. We arrested one of the men, had to take him to hospital with a broken leg and wrist.’

  The sound of the man’s leg snapping echoed again in Lambert’s head. He couldn’t feel any remorse for what he’d done. He’d been under attack, and in many ways the two men had escaped lightly. After joining The Group, Tillman had insisted that Lambert undergo extensive special operations training. He’d spent three months in the UK, followed by a ten-week course in the States. He’d been trained to use extreme force when under attack and in many ways he’d held back last night. Lambert shrugged. ‘And?’

  ‘Only he escaped from the hospital this morning.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lambert. The incident explained the frantic scenes in the office, and the tired looks on May’s colleagues. Lambert imagined there hadn’t been much security at the hospital. It suggested that there were more than two of them involved, as it was unlikely that the Mediterranean-looking man had helped the injured man escape alone. ‘Was he under arrest at the time?’

  ‘We were waiting to question him.’

  ‘Could be worse,’ said Lambert.

  ‘It’s the last thing I need at the moment, though,’ said May.

  A sea of faces watched Lambert as he followed May into the open-plan office. He recognised the unwelcoming glare of police officers when a stranger entered their home turf all too well. The eyes analysed him, reached conclusions. Lambert had been a suspect on the original Souljacker case and here he was again. Most of the office would know about his past and possibly considered him a suspect now. He would have thought that being one of them, albeit on a leave of absence, would give him some dispensation. At the moment, he couldn’t tell.

  A straight-backed man, in his early sixties stood and greeted him. ‘Michael Lambert,’ he said, his face not betraying any sense of emotion.

  ‘I thought it might be you, sir,’ said Lambert, shaking hands with the retired Chief Superintendent, Julian Hastings. Lambert hadn’t seen the man in over ten years. Time had softened him a bit. His stomach carried more weight and his face was rounder than before, but his eyes had retained their sharp quality.

  ‘Inspector May here wanted a quick chat with me about this new incident. She mentioned you were back in town.’

  ‘Yes, visiting old haunts.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ said May. Three other officers sat around the table with Hastings but no further introductions were made.

  May stood at the head of the table. An incident board hung on the wall behind her decorated with pictures of the ten Souljacker victims, before and after their attacks. Various lines had been added onto the board linking the photos with other images at the periphery of the board: former victims, family members, friends, colleagues, and potential suspects. Lambert had studied an almost replica version of the board on The System back at his hotel. He’d analysed each link and knew the past histories of everyone involved.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Hastings has been helping us fill in some missing gaps on the previous Souljacker murders,’ said May.

  Lambert noted the predominantly male workforce. ‘What have you learnt?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Not much I’m afraid, Michael,’ said Hastings. His voice was an octave lower than the last time they’d met, now a gravelly tenor. ‘These guys are pretty thorough.’

  ‘You’re being modest there, sir,’ said May. ‘But we thought you may be able to add to what Chief Superintendent Hastings has told us, Mr Lambert.’ The sociable, even flirtatious May he’d dined with the previous evening had disappeared.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘As you can imagine, we’re trying to find a link between the old victims and Terrence Haydon. Chief Superintendent Hastings can find no mention of Haydon in his previous notes, apart from a brief statement from him. Did Haydon and Billy Nolan know each other?’

  ‘They knew each other,’ said Lambert, ‘though not very well as far as I’m aware. Haydon lived one floor above Billy at University and he wasn’t really in Billy’s social circle. My social circle. I thought that would have been in your notes, sir.’ It should also have been in May’s notes, as he had told her as much the previous day.

  Hastings turned towards him, the slightest nod of his head.

  ‘Is there any way they could have known each other outside your social circle?’ said May.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Any groups they may have gone to, classes they may have shared?’

  Lambert thought about the church angle May had mentioned last night. ‘Terrence studied theology, Billy studied English. Their paths wouldn’t have crossed in lectures. ‘I don’t know if Terrence was a member of any club or association. From what I know of Billy, and from what I remember about Haydon, their interests were not very similar. I do remember one thing though.’

  May tilted her head, signalling him to continue.

  ‘I remember Haydon commenting on the smell of incense once we’d broken down Billy’s door. He said it was like the incense they used in church.’

  The police officers exchanged glances. Lambert waited for them to share their information about the stolen incense which had appeared on The System earlier that morning.

  ‘So Haydon saw the crime scene?’ asked May.

  ‘Yes. A lot of the students had a peek before the police arrived, those who could stomach it. I imagine most wished they hadn’t afterwards.’

  ‘And you remember him specifically commenting on the incense?’ said May.

  ‘It was a long time ago, but I seem to remember it was him that noticed it. Most of us didn’t go to church. We thought it was standard student stuff, the embers of a joss stick. I think it was frankincense or something?’

  ‘Pontifical Incense,’ said one of the detectives sitting to May’s right, a surly-looking man in a cheap linen suit.

  ‘DS Bradbury,’ said May.

  Lambert nodded at the detective who didn’t acknowledge the gesture.

  May sat down, the lightness returning to her eyes. ‘Whilst you’re here, Mr Lambert, maybe we could take advantage of your experience.’ She acted like they hadn’t met the previous evening, hadn’t already discussed the case in full. It was possible she hadn’t told Bradbury about their meeting, or that it was a show for Hastings.

  ‘I’m here to help,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Before you arrived, we were discussing the possible motivation for the killer starting again eighteen years on.’

  ‘My initial thought would be unfinished business. It’s possible that Haydon was his original target, not Nolan,’ said Lambert. Though not entirely convinced by this theory, he wanted to gauge the reaction in the room.

  Hastings’ face remained impassive.

  ‘And he waited eighteen years to correct his mistake?’ sneered DS Bradbury.

  ‘Who knows what he’s been up to during that time? Maybe he was close to being discovered after Nolan’s murder. Perhaps he was spooked, was waiting for the Chief Super here to retire.’

  Hastings didn’t respond.

  ‘Perhaps we should move on to your friend, Mr Lambert,’ said Bradbury, rubbing a loose strand of black hair from his forehead. The DS lacked subtlety. The mood in the room had changed in an instant from a friendly, professional consultation, to something of an interrogation. Lambert allowed it to continue, kept his body language neutral.

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘Simon Klatzky.’

  Lambert crossed his arms and waited for the DS to elaborate.

  May sent Bradbury a warning look but the DC composed himself and continued. ‘Were you aware that Mr Klatzky has an outstanding arrest warrant?’

  ‘I wasn’t, no. What for?’

  ‘He failed to turn up at a Magistrate’s hearing.’

  May raised her shoulders apologetically. ‘Oh, what charge?’ asked L
ambert.

  ‘Shoplifting.’

  ‘Did you not think to pick him up yesterday? I thought you knew he was with me,’ said Lambert. Although unfazed by the questioning, the inconsistency of it all was beginning to annoy him.

  ‘We couldn’t care less about his arrest warrant,’ said Bradbury. ‘We’re keen to know what he’s doing with you, what you’re both doing here.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack,’ said May, trying to ease the growing tension. ‘What DS Bradbury is really asking is, is there anything we should know about Klatzky? Did he have a relationship with Nolan in any way?’

  ‘Well, they were best friends, Inspector. I think that is common knowledge.’

  ‘And Haydon?’

  ‘Again, we were a close-knit group. There were six of us, and Haydon had no part in that group. We would only ever see him in the halls. Klatzky would be better able to answer that for himself.’

  ‘You have no reason to believe that Klatzky would want to hurt Terrence Haydon in any way?’ asked Bradbury. ‘Maybe settle some old score from University?’

  ‘You will need to be more specific. What old score could they have?’

  ‘A girl or something?’

  Lambert sighed. ‘Have you seen the photos of Klatzky at University? Or now? This is not someone who has ever had trouble with girls, or anyone for that matter. Read your reports more carefully.’ He stood up, tired of the interrogation, the rudeness of Bradbury’s approach, the general ineptitude. ‘Well, thanks for the meeting.’

  ‘Sit down, Mr Lambert,’ said Bradbury, placing his hand on Lambert’s arm.

  Lambert tensed. ‘Remove your hand,’ he said.

  ‘Or what?’ said Bradbury.

  ‘Sit down, DS Bradbury,’ said May. ‘Thanks for your help, Mr Lambert. We’ll invite Mr Klatzky in for questioning shortly.’

  Lambert exchanged a quick look with the chastened DS, then, ‘Good to see you again, sir,’ he said, turning towards Hastings, who stood to shake his hand.

  ‘Michael.’

  As Lambert walked towards the exit, an officer rushed through the door, shoulder-charging him out of the way. ‘Inspector, you have to see this,’ he said, handing a piece of folded paper to May.

  Lambert waited by the door as May read the note.

  Bradbury walked over and with a mocking smile slammed the door shut in his face.

  Chapter 14

  Lambert started the car and sped away from the station. His pulse raced and he opened the car’s window, the early morning breeze cooling his skin. He clenched the steering wheel as he pictured DS Bradbury slamming the door in his face, and laughed as he realised he was overacting. Bradbury was nothing more than a little jumpstart and would get what was coming to him. He would call May later and sort everything out. They should never have discussed Klatzky like that in front of him.

  The escape from the hospital was more of a concern to him. Everything pointed to some type of team being involved. It had to relate to the Souljacker case, and that possibility opened up so many new avenues it made his head swim. New questions sprung to his mind as he drove. Did the Souljacker have a team working for him? Or was there more than one killer? Neither explanation explained why Klatzky had been sent the photos, or why the two men had followed and attacked Lambert last night.

  Thirty minutes later he arrived in Weston-super-Mare. He drove along the seafront, stealing glances at an expanse of dull sand blurred into thick, brown mud. If there was any sea it was out close to the horizon. He’d visited the town occasionally whilst at University, and couldn’t remember a time when the tide had been in. He drove out of the centre until he reached the estate where Terrence Haydon’s father resided. Roger Haydon lived in a red brick house identical to a line of other buildings, all of which had been purpose-built sometime in the eighties. Weeds poked through the concrete path leading to Haydon’s front door, the smell of blocked drains in the air.

  Lambert knocked on the door but there was no answer, the faded patterned curtains behind the front window drawn shut. Lambert knocked again, harder this time. As he did so he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Lambert turned. Before him stood a young man, possibly in his late teens. He had the bulk of a rugby player and the eyes of someone very much older. He held a clear plastic bag which contained two large bottles of White Lightning Cider. His body swayed as he stood staring at Lambert. ‘What do you want?’ he repeated, his voice slurred.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Haydon.’

  ‘He’s not in,’ said the man, who stood poised, his knees bent as if about to pounce.

  ‘And you are?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Who am I? Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Terrence, Mr Haydon’s son.’

  The boy relaxed his posture. ‘Terrence is dead,’ he said, seemingly confused by the exchange.

  ‘I know. I’ve come to pay my condolences.’

  ‘Wait there,’ said the boy. He opened the door and went inside. Lambert waited as, for the second time that day, someone slammed a door shut in his face.

  Lambert waited five minutes before knocking again. The boy had been so out of it that it was possible he’d forgotten their exchange by the time he’d slammed the door shut. Lambert’s patience was running out. He knocked for the last time and began counting to sixty.

  He reached fifty-nine and was about to force the door when it was opened. The boy stood in the doorway, a glass of clear cider in one hand, the other jammed across the door frame as a barrier. ‘What did you say your name was again?’ he slurred.

  ‘Michael Lambert. I was a friend of Terrence at University.’

  The boy looked him up and down then moved aside to let him through. The house was ripe with body odour. A dimly lit hallway led to the cramped interior of what Lambert presumed was the living room. The room could have come straight out of the 1970s. Everything was tinged with brown. The curtains were pulled shut, with only a small lamp on the corner table giving the room any illumination. On a tattered cloth sofa sat an elderly man wearing boxer shorts and a stained vest. Like the boy, he drank cider from a pint glass.

  ‘Mr Haydon?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Depends who’s asking.’ The man’s voice surprised Lambert; a booming Welsh accent, lyrical and powerful, coming from the small-framed man.

  Lambert explained his connection to Terrence Haydon once more.

  ‘Okay, I’ll bite for now. Take a seat. Would you like a drink?’

  The teenager stood in the hallway staring at Lambert. His relationship to the elderly man was not clear.

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Lambert, ‘thank you.’

  ‘Take a seat then. You don’t look like someone who’d be a friend of Terrence. How did you know him?’ began the father, gulping at the cider.

  ‘We weren’t that close. He lived on the floor above me at University. One of my friends told me the terrible news, and I wanted to pay my respects.’

  ‘Really, is that so?’ said Haydon, glancing over at the boy.

  As Lambert’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he took in the sparsely decorated room. To his right stood a mahogany sideboard decorated with ashtrays brimming with half-finished cigarettes. Opposite him a bookshelf doubled up as a makeshift drinks cabinet. Whiskey the drink of choice.

  Roger Haydon leant forward and refilled his glass from the plastic bottle. His baggy skin hung from his frail frame. His left arm was decorated with a tattoo of a faded blue rose. A long, pronounced vein dissected his meagre bicep muscle. From his seated position, Lambert couldn’t see any sign of drug abuse. The man and boy were chronic alcoholics but nothing more. DS Bradbury had interviewed Roger Haydon and had ruled him out as a suspect. Lambert agreed with the assessment but sensed Bradbury had missed something. He remembered Sandra Vernon’s visceral reaction when he’d mentioned her ex-husband’s name and wanted to know more.

  ‘You say you’ve come to pay your respects? Surely if you k
new Terrence you knew that he wasn’t my number one fan.’

  ‘Well, sort of, sir, but I’m a father. I know it is something I would appreciate.’

  ‘You’ve visited his mum?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her yesterday.’

  The boy refilled Haydon’s drink and sat next to the man, his red eyes never leaving Lambert’s. ‘Then you would have seen what she’s like?’ he said.

  ‘She mentioned that you didn’t get to see Terrence much, Mr Haydon.’

  ‘That would be right,’ said the boy.

  Haydon put his hand on the boy’s knee.

  ‘She poisoned him against Roger,’ the boy said.

  ‘Poisoned him how?’

  Haydon drank his glass in two large gulps. ‘Her and her bloody church.’

  ‘Religion was important to Terrence? I know he studied theology at University,’ said Lambert.

  ‘There’s nothing theological about what her group did. All they preached was hatred.’

  ‘Preached?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘I’m not talking about whatever church she is with now. I’m talking about the church she used to go to when Terrence was a child. We lived in South Wales. Sandra followed the boy to Bristol when he moved to University.’

  Lambert kept quiet. His experience in such situations was to remain silent, and allow the information to come out.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, Roger,’ said the teenager.

  ‘Aw, come on,’ said Haydon. ‘This man’s come all the way to pay his condolences. He should know the full story.’

  He refilled his glass, and leant forward. ‘We should never have married, but in those days, and I don’t want to sound like some stupid old man, but in those days it was the done thing. I knew she went to church, which wasn’t so unusual then. Are you a religious man, Mr Lambert?’ asked Haydon, changing tack, as if concerned he was insulting Lambert in some way.

  ‘No, no,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about all of them,’ continued Haydon, ‘but her group, nutcases one and all.’

  The boy laughed, and Lambert joined in.

  ‘Of course we should never have done it, but then Terrence came along, which was a wonderful thing. But then I was stuck, Mr Lambert. It’s a cliché, but I was stuck in a lie.’ The man drank again, his hand shaking.