Dead Lucky Page 9

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Lambert.

  ‘I think you do,’ said the voice, giving him time for contemplation.

  ‘Do you have any information on what just happened in…’

  The voice interrupted him. ‘You’re standing outside East Finchley tube station. You look ruffled, Mr Lambert, you really should do your tie up.’

  Lambert looked about him, his eyes darting from one high rise building to the other, searching for a pair of eyes on him. It was an impossible task but he kept looking as he spoke.

  ‘Who are you? And what do you want?’

  The voice chuckled. ‘You’re not going to find me,’ he said. ‘I can see you but you can’t see me.’

  ‘Tell me something worth hearing or I’m hanging up,’ said Lambert, bluffing. He knew the man wanted an audience but the last thing he wanted to do was hang up. He needed to obtain as much information as possible. If this was the killer, as the voice on the other end of the line seemed to be suggesting, then this could be his only chance.

  ‘Oh I don’t think you want to do that, Mr Lambert. You need to listen carefully to me. First, no one is to know about this conversation. This is between you and me. Secondly, you need to know that you’re not to blame.’

  It was Lambert’s turn to chuckle. ‘And why the hell would I be to blame?’

  ‘Well you did bring things forward, Lambert. This was always going to happen, but you accelerated my plans.’

  ‘How? What have I done to speed up your process?’ Lambert thought about the people he’d spoken to in the last couple of days. Eustace Sackville, Charles Robinson, the librarian, Sandra Levinson, Curtis Blake, even the officer who’d warned him to stay away, DS Harrogate. None of them sounded like the man he was speaking to now.

  ‘You don’t need to concern yourself as to how, you’ll never work it out. What’s going to happen is going to happen but there are things you could prevent. Laura and Eustace are all alone. I’m sure you feel the same way, but you are not as alone as they are.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You and I are very similar, Lambert. You might not understand why yet but we are. But we could become identical.’ Lambert heard a click on his phone, and the line went dead.

  Chapter 17

  Lambert looked about him at the commuters and tourists, the students with their oversized shorts and flip-flops, the office workers, escaping their confines for a cigarette break. He’d noticed a couple of people on their phones and searched for any sign that one of them had been speaking to him. He tried to memorise the conversation. The man had said they were similar. The words felt like a threat but he didn’t yet fully understand how. He caught the tube, deciding for the time being to keep the call to himself.

  He went home first. He checked his phone as he logged onto The System and was pleased to discover that an app the tech department installed had made a clear recording of the conversation. He loaded the file onto his laptop and encrypted it. He played it over and over, listening to the words of the man, the tone and cadence of his voice as he spoke to Lambert. At no point did he discuss the killings or allude to the fact that he was the killer. Everything was implied. Even if Lambert did bring this to Tillman’s attention the caller would probably be laughed off as a hoax. They received calls like this all the time but Lambert was convinced this was different. He played the conversation one last time.

  ‘You and I are similar,’ said the voice, ‘but we could become identical.’

  He deleted the file from his phone and changed into a fresh set of clothes, the shirt he’d been wearing was sodden with sweat.

  Kennedy called as he was about to leave his bedsit. ‘Just to update you, sir. We’ve run a number of cross-checks on Laura Dempsey. No matches yet. Mrs Dempsey worked as a nurse practitioner. She was the assistant to the Head of Nursing at Watford General Hospital.’

  ‘And the husband?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘He was an artist. Mainly photography work, but quite successful by all accounts. He ran a small studio off Covent Garden. He didn’t have a record.’

  ‘Have we spoken to the immediate family?’

  ‘Mr Dempsey was survived by his father. Ninety-four, dementia sufferer. We’ve informed his retirement home. We haven’t managed to reach Laura Dempsey’s parents yet. One of her friends from the hospital has been informed. We’ve advised her against visiting just yet.’

  ‘Okay, keep looking,’ said Lambert. He knew he should tell Kennedy about the phone call he’d received but needed to keep the information to himself for the time being. He shut the door to his bedsit and walked down the stairs. He opened the front door of the building, stepping out into the blazing sunshine. Eustace Sackville had left his hospital by now and, with nowhere else to go, had returned to the flat where he’d witnessed his wife being murdered. Lambert hailed a black cab and told the driver the address.

  Sackville answered the door in his dressing gown. He looked at Lambert wide-eyed as if he didn’t recognise him.

  ‘How are you holding up, Eustace?’

  The man blinked. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said. Instead of walking to the living room Sackville led him to a small kitchenette area. The blinds were pulled down, the only illumination was from the lines of light escaping through the cracks in the plastic.

  ‘Are you sure there’s no one who can come and stay with you, Eustace?’ asked Lambert. The kitchen was in disarray, the sink full of dirty washing. An empty whisky bottle sat alone on one of the sideboards, its replacement, a quarter drunk, sat on the small kitchen table.

  ‘A couple of people from the paper have come by. They didn’t want to stay. I see it in their eyes. I can’t really blame them.’

  ‘We have people watching the building.’

  ‘If I’m under threat, so be it,’ said Sackville. He went to pour himself a measure from the whisky bottle. ‘Can I tempt you?’

  Lambert shook his head, it was the middle of the day. ‘Listen, Eustace, I have some news for you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘This won’t make for pleasant hearing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘With what I’ve seen over the last few days, do you really think that matters?’

  Lambert told him about the Dempsey family. How the mother, Laura Dempsey, had been the only survivor. How she’d been made to watch like Eustace had.

  ‘Jesus Christ, that poor woman,’ said Eustace, with shaking hands refilling his glass. Lambert wanted to stop him drinking but what could he tell him? That’s there was nothing to be gained from drinking his life away?

  ‘Mr Dempsey was an artist. Mrs Dempsey works as a nurse in Watford. I know you don’t want to answer any questions, Eustace, but this is important. Do you know either of them?’

  Eustace shook his head.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘As sure as can be. I get to speak to a lot of people for my work, quite often a lot in the medical profession. Can’t say I’ve come across any artists though. I can check through my records though, and let you know later.’

  ‘And the name Laura Dempsey doesn’t ring any bells?’

  ‘None whatsoever. My mind, it’s fragile at best at the moment.’ He took another swig of whisky, his red eyes beginning to water.

  ‘You need to get out of here, Eustace. I’ll see if I can get you somewhere to stay, a B&B. Somewhere you can take your mind off this.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer but this is my home, Michael. It wouldn’t be fair on Moira to turn my back on it.’

  Lambert left Sackville with his whisky bottle. He stopped outside the entrance to his flat and surveyed the area, wondering if he was under surveillance at that very moment. He called Devlin to confirm that the Sackville residence was being watched.

  ‘I want you to check in on him every few hours,’ said Lambert. ‘Make sure he doesn’t drink himself to death. I also want him to take a look at some photos of Laura Dempsey and her family. I’ll email them over to you. Make sure he sees them, look f
or a reaction.’

  Lambert called Charles Robinson’s chambers. The barrister was due in court in the next couple of hours. He wanted to surprise him, to catch him off guard.

  He hailed a black cab. He needed to speak to Laura Dempsey but knew he wouldn’t be allowed to yet. He wondered again what seeing her children and husband murdered would have done to the woman’s sanity. It was possible she would never properly recover. It was also unlikely that the killer had been foolish enough to show his face. No doubt he would have followed his MO from the Sackville killing and kept his mask on throughout.

  It took the cab an hour to reach the court house, the Old Bailey in the heart of the city. Lambert walked the corridors of the old building. He knew many of the faces. Solicitors, barrister, care workers, even the occasional villain he’d passed during the years. He walked to the canteen where he found Charles Robinson nursing a drink, studying a file. Lambert ordered himself a coffee and took a seat some distance away, waiting for a time when Robinson was less relaxed. He sat facing Robinson’s back, his eyes boring into the man, waiting. Eventually Robinson stood up to leave. Lambert followed at a distance. He was heading to the robing area where the barristers changed into their paraphernalia. He let the man walk through the door, secure in the knowledge that he was where he wanted him. He was about to follow through the door when a security guard stopped him.

  ‘Sorry, sir, you can’t go through there.’

  Lambert showed him his warrant card.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s still off limits. You’ll have to wait for whoever you need to see to come back out.’

  Lambert smiled. ‘You want to try to stop me, go ahead, but I’m going through that door.’

  The security guard lifted his hand radio and called for assistance. Lambert ignored him and walked through the doors. He found Robinson deep in conversation with a fellow barrister. A traditional white wig adorned his head. It altered his appearance, framed his face. He looked over at Lambert. He initially smiled but soon his face turned as he began to panic. ‘Are you here to see me, DCI Lambert?’ he said frowning.

  His colleague moved away, retrieved something from one of the lockers and left the room. ‘You really shouldn’t be in here,’ continued Robinson.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Lambert.

  ‘No time I’m afraid. I have a client meeting now and I’m due in court shortly.’

  ‘This won’t take a moment,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Really, I must insist,’ said Robinson, ‘it’s a very important case and I must give my client my full attention.’

  ‘You’re defending?’

  Robinson nodded.

  ‘Maybe afterwards?’

  ‘I could be some time.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must insist,’ said Lambert.

  Robinson sighed. ‘Fine. There’ll be a recess, though I don’t know for sure when that will be, so by all means wait for me. We can speak then if it really is that important.’

  The door opened. The guard who’d stopped Lambert outside entered the room, flanked by three others.

  ‘Bit of overkill?’ said Lambert.

  ‘You need to leave,’ said the guard.

  ‘I was leaving anyway. Oh, Charles, just before I go. You may not have heard but it seems Mrs Sackville’s friend has struck again.’

  The colour drained from Robinson’s face, his skin the same colour as his wig.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Three more last night. A fourth witnessed it.’

  ‘Why are you telling me now?’ asked Robinson.

  ‘Just thought you should know,’ said Lambert, turning his back. ‘I’ll see you at recess.’

  He would probably get in trouble but it had been worth it. He’d wanted Robinson upset and on edge, and by the man’s reaction he’d succeeded. Robinson had looked surprised by the coded message concerning Laura Dempsey’s family, but Lambert had seen Oscar-worthy performances before from suspects and some of the most accomplished actors he’d ever met shared Robinson’s profession. He’d planted a seed in Robinson’s brain. When his case broke for recess, Lambert planned to ask the barrister about his stalking activity outside Moira Sackville’s library.

  ‘I need you to leave the building,’ said the guard.

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Lambert, making a note of the listed cases on the noticeboard.

  Although the building was air-conditioned, the heat wave had everyone on edge. He pitied Robinson’s client, knowing the barrister’s attention would be elsewhere during the trial. At a local coffee shop, he found a seat by the window and called a contact of his who worked at the Old Bailey and asked him to keep an eye on Robinson’s case. As he waited, he uploaded The System on his laptop, using his secured 4G dongle and began searching through the data his team had already compiled.

  The pages already numbered in the hundreds. All of Eustace Sackville’s cases which were discoverable online had been added, as had details of criminal cases involving Charles Robinson. Lambert tried running some subroutines, looking for matches between the pair. Unfortunately, Sackville had spent much of his career working out of the Old Bailey so there were well over fifty cases he’d reported which had featured Robinson as a defending barrister. Now all it needed was someone to read them. He called Devlin and gave him the bad news.

  Lambert worked until he felt as if he’d mined The System of all possible information. The System was only as good as the information supplied to it, and at the moment everything was unspecific. As a result, the information returned from the searches was too general to be of use.

  His contact from the Old Bailey called moments later. Lambert bought a pain au raisin and devoured it as he made his way back to the courthouse. He’d had the constant feeling of being watched ever since the unknown call from that morning. He glanced at everyone he passed, looking for a hint of recognition. Most people looked away from his gaze, the occasional person meeting his look as if they’d been offered a challenge.

  Inside the building, he joined a throng of people and slipped past the security guards. He found Robinson in the canteen talking to a beanpole-like figure, who by the look of his acne-ridden skin was only a teenager. Lambert was about to approach the pair, when a thought struck him about Mr Dempsey senior, all alone with his dementia in the care home. He remembered what Kennedy had told him about Laura Dempsey’s parents, how she hadn’t managed to make contact with them since the incident. He pictured them somewhere in the city, getting on with daily life oblivious to the fact that their grandchildren and son-in-law had been murdered in front of their daughter’s eyes. It didn’t make sense. In this day and age they should have been located. They would have checked their phones, or emails.

  Lambert thought about Eustace Sackville all alone in the flat he’d once shared with his wife. He forgot all about Robinson and fled the building.

  Chapter 18

  The road was littered with cars but there was not a taxi in sight. Lambert scanned up and down the road, desperate for the sight of a black cab. As he waited he called Devlin and found the address. He told Devlin to arrange for backup and to let Kennedy know if she was in the vicinity. A hundred yards down the street a black cab was dropping off two occupants. Lambert sprinted across the road, narrowly missing an oncoming cyclist. As he approached the taxi he watched in dismay as a young couple climbed in the back. He upped his pace and reached the cab before it pulled away. He yanked open the passenger door and, breathless, took out his warrant card. The couple looked at him as if he were insane.

  ‘Let’s have a look at that, mate,’ said the man, a spiky-haired youth dressed in shorts and a pink t-shirt, well-worn flip-flops dangling off his feet.

  ‘Get out of the cab,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Can’t we come along too?’ asked Flip-flop’s companion.

  ‘No. Out, be quick about it.’

  ‘Bloody disgrace,’ said Flip-flop, as they both clambered out the door. The spiky-haired youth gave Lambert a glare he thought w
as menacing and stood next to his girlfriend holding hands as Lambert climbed in.

  ‘You know I don’t have to take you anywhere,’ said the driver, glaring at Lambert from his rear-view mirror.

  ‘I’d appreciate your help on this,’ said Lambert, inwardly sighing at the loops he was going through just to start the journey. ‘I’m on a murder investigation and I need to get somewhere urgently.’

  The driver screwed his face up and made an elaborate show of turning on the counter. Lambert told him the address and they set off.

  ‘Don’t they supply you guys with cars any more?’

  ‘Take any route you want,’ said Lambert, ignoring the question. ‘You can go through red lights as long as you’re safe. Just get me there as quick as you can.’

  ‘Yeah right, you say that now, but when the tickets come in you’ll be nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, just drive,’ said Lambert.

  The driver rushed through a yellow light but was soon caught up in traffic. Lambert leant back, his jacket sticking to the faux leather seat. He was sure they had been going about it all wrong. He thought back to what the killer had said to him on the phone, about Eustace and Laura being alone, and sighed at the amount of time that had been wasted. Eventually the car pulled up outside the residence. Two squad cars were waiting and Lambert was surprised to see Matilda Kennedy already at the scene with Walker and Devlin. The driver tapped at the figure on the counter. Lambert pulled out some cash and gave the driver a generous tip.

  ‘Where we at?’ he shouted over to Kennedy as he exited the car.

  ‘We haven’t tried the door on your orders. We made several phone calls to both their mobiles but it goes to voicemail each time.’ Kennedy edged close to him as they walked up the stone steps to the house. Her face was flushed, the heat radiating off her.

  ‘Do you mind me asking what we’re doing here, sir?’ she said.

  ‘It’s just a thought. It came to me after you told me about Mr Dempsey’s father. I just hope they’re on holiday or out for the day.’

  He rang the doorbell. They were at the home of Laura Dempsey’s parents, Mr and Mrs Patchett. Lambert opened the letterbox and called their names. He squinted through the narrow gap for any sign of disturbance. He rang the doorbell and banged on the door again. No answer.