Dead Eyed

Chapter 8

Lance Crosby left the small bookshop opposite the University building. He’d been waiting for three hours, ever since Lambert had caught the taxi. He watched Lambert enter the building and called it in.

‘Sit tight,’ said the man on the other end of the line.

Lance did as instructed. It was his third day on the job. The last two days had been spent in London following Lambert’s friend, Simon Klatzky. Keeping track of Klatzky had meant visiting an unending array of public houses, until yesterday when he’d contacted Lambert.

Lance had photographed the second man and forwarded the photos onto Campbell, who had taken great pleasure in the news.

In an instant, the focus changed. Lance had been following Lambert ever since. Following Lambert was more complicated. Campbell had warned him that Lambert was a professional and so it had proved. Lance hoped the other two would arrive soon. Sooner or later his luck would run out and Lambert would spot him. He’d kept his distance this morning on the tube and latterly on the train but Lambert was police. He’d told Campbell as much but the words went unheeded.

Before he had time to react, Lambert left the University building. Lance followed at a distance as Lambert walked down Park Street, heading for the Marriott hotel at the bottom of the hill.

Lance updated his boss.

‘Go back to the University and watch Klatzky,’ instructed Campbell.

Back at the building, following a gruelling trek back up Park Street, Lance showed the security guard a fake ID and went in search of the union bar. It was no surprise to find the second man there. Simon Klatzky sat at a table drowning his sorrows. Somehow he’d convinced a number of female students, attractive ones at that, to join him.

Lance ordered a Diet Coke from the bar and took a seat, imagining he was in for a long day.

Chapter 9

Like Bradbury had suggested, Blood Kill was full of authentic procedural detail but May found herself drawn to the story as well which was about the murder of teenage girl, a girl blind from birth. The main detective was a methodical and morally superior Superintendent. From what Bradbury had told her, Hastings had become obsessed with the Souljacker case during his time on the force. It had proved to be the major case he never solved, and there was an obvious parallel to the girl in his novel. She wondered if writing the book was cathartic for Hastings, if the success of his fictional hero in finding the killer alleviated his own perceived failings. She closed the book halfway through, surprised how engrossed she had become with the case.

Jack Bradbury stopped her as she left the office.

‘I thought you’d want to know. Sandra Vernon called. Apparently your friend Michael Lambert paid her a visit earlier on today.’

‘How long ago?’ asked May.

‘A few minutes. She called as soon as he’d left. She wasn’t very happy. He claimed he was a friend of Terrence Haydon and had called around to pay his respects.’

‘True in a way, I suppose. Did she have anything else to add?’

‘That he was asking some odd questions. In particular about Terrence’s father.’

‘What did he want exactly?’

‘She sounded a bit pissed,’ said Bradbury. ‘Lambert wanted to know the man’s address. Vernon didn’t pass on the details.’

Although she didn’t consider him a serious suspect, May had placed Lambert’s picture on the incident board next to Klatzky’s. She’d warned him not to start his own investigation but knew he would still get involved. Procedurally it would be difficult to officially get him working on the case, though it would definitely be beneficial. ‘You saw Terrence’s father yesterday?’ she asked Bradbury.

Bradbury nodded. She remembered his report. The man lived alone in a council estate in Weston-super-Mare. Sad figure by all accounts. He hadn’t seen his son in over twenty years. ‘Okay, I’ll have another word with him today.’

‘What, Lambert?’

May crossed her arms. ‘Yes, Lambert. Is there anything else?’

‘No, ma’am,’ replied Bradbury. With a brief flash of the puppy dog eyes, he turned away.

The hospital was less than a mile from the Central Police Station so she decided to walk. As she left the building, she thought she saw a figure from her past. She rubbed her eyes, as the figure disappeared around a corner, and retrieved a pair of sunglasses from her bag.

May had arranged to meet Siobhan Callahan at the hospital. Callahan worked as an Occupational Therapist. She’d been one of the students on the fifth floor of the halls of residence during the period when Billy Nolan’s body was discovered eighteen years ago.

She’d also been Michael Lambert’s girlfriend.

May uncovered her following a thorough reading of the student statements. She couldn’t believe her luck when she’d discovered the woman worked less than a mile from her office.

The extended heatwave still gripped the city, the late September sky a cloudless blue. May trekked up the hill which led to the hospital and searched for Callaghan’s department on the noticeboard in the main foyer. She followed the green line which led to the occupational therapy department. She recalled her own time at University, and the boyfriends she’d had there. She didn’t know how she would have reacted if someone wanted to talk to her about any of them. She rarely dwelled on the past, couldn’t relate to the wide-eyed girl she’d been in her early twenties. She viewed her past like a voyeur, her memories akin to a reader imagining a character from a book.

Siobhan Callaghan was not what she’d expected. May had pictured a stereotypical Irish girl, buxom and red-haired. The woman in front of her had short, spikey black hair, and a thin wiry body. Her face had a boyish quality to it.

‘Oh yes, Inspector. Sorry, I’ve been rushed off my feet today. Please come on through.’ She led her through to a small white cubicle, with a desk, two plastic chairs and an elevated bed. Like the rest of the hospital, the small area had a clean antiseptic smell. ‘Please take a seat. Sorry, I didn’t quite get the gist of your call earlier. You mentioned something about that incident at the University all those years ago.’

‘Yes, thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ said May. ‘You’ve read about the recent murder in Southville?’

‘Yes. Ghastly. I thought about poor Billy when I read it. You think it’s the same person? It’s what the papers think, isn’t it?’

May studied the woman. She sounded genuine, and nothing about her body language suggested otherwise. ‘I can’t comment on that. We’re speaking to everyone who was in halls on the night Billy Nolan’s body was discovered. I read your statement from that time.’

Callaghan struggled to keep eye contact with May. Her eyes darted upwards, as if replaying that night in her head. ‘I was asleep when all the commotion happened, thank God. I never saw him. Christ, am I thankful for that. I can imagine it really fucked most people up. Oh, sorry, excuse my language.’

May waved her hand dismissing the apology.

‘This one girl, Laura, she could barely speak. Her whole body was shaking. I remember putting my arm around her. She buzzed. It’s the only word I can use to describe it. It was like touching someone who’d had an electric shock. Her parents collected her the day after. I never saw her again. I’d known her for three years at University and that was that.’

‘It says on your file you had a boyfriend at the time?’

Callahan shifted in her chair. ‘Michael,’ she said, a slight lilt to her voice.

‘Yes, Michael…Lambert,’ said May, pretending to glance at her notes.

‘Poor guy,’ said Siobhan. ‘He was the one who found Billy. Broke down his door. Have you spoken to him about it?’

May nodded.

Siobhan’s eyes widened. ‘Oh.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He was a bit like Laura to begin with, and then he went silent. He was close to Billy, you know.’

‘Yes, what was he like?’

‘Billy or Michael?’

‘Michael.’

A brightness overcame Siobhan’s face, the memory clearly a fond one. ‘He was a sweet guy. What can I say, we were young. It was quite intense.’

‘Were you going out with him for long?’

‘Six, seven months.’

‘Was it a monogamous relationship?’

‘As far as I’m aware. Why all these questions about Michael?’

‘The most recent victim, he was also at University with you.’

‘What?’ said Siobhan, the colour vanishing from her face. ‘Michael wasn’t the victim, was he?’

‘No, no. Sorry, Siobhan. I didn’t mean to confuse you. The latest victim was called Terrence Haydon. He was at University at the same time as you.’

Siobhan caught her breath. ‘He was in halls with us? What floor was he on?’

‘Floor six. Some people called him Mad Terry?’

‘Don’t remember him. What’s this to do with Michael?’

‘Oh, nothing directly.’

Siobhan placed her hands in her lap. ‘You can’t think he has anything to do with it? That would be ridiculous.’

May leant forward, catching a waft of antiseptic from the corridor. ‘No, of course not. We’re examining all the connections in the two cases. And obviously Michael knew Billy very well. Did you know Michael’s other friends?’

Siobhan relaxed, her shoulders dropping. ‘Yeah, there was a gang of them.’

‘What were they like as a group?’

‘They were nice enough guys. They basically liked to drink and go with girls, like all boys that age.’

‘Remember Simon Klatzky?’

Siobhan pursed her lips. ‘He was hot,’ she said, giggling. ‘God, listen to me. Yeah, he was good friends with Michael. We’d all go out as a gang sometimes. I think he was really close with Billy. From what I heard it hit him really hard as well.’

May thought about the photo of Klatzky she’d posted on the whiteboard, the hard life he’d had since leaving University. ‘Was there any trouble amongst them as a group? Any fights, things like that?’

‘There were the odd fallings out but nothing significant. They all got on really well.’

‘Well, thanks for your time, Siobhan. It’s been much appreciated. As I said it’s a routine thing.’

Siobhan had grown in confidence during the meeting. Her eyes were more focused. As they both stood, she asked, ‘So when did you see Michael?’

May noted the keen interest in the question, was surprised that the inquiry made her bristle. ‘He’s in Bristol at the moment. I met him today.’

‘What’s he like now?’

‘Yeah, he seems really nice. What happened to you guys after University?’

Siobhan walked her to the hospital elevator. ‘We met up once. He came to stay with me at my parents’ house for a week. He decided to go travelling for a year.’

‘And you didn’t want to go with him?’

‘We talked about it. I had another year at University as I was studying for my Masters. We said we’d stay in touch,’ said Siobhan. ‘But we never did.’

Back at the station, May changed into her running gear, skin-tight running trousers and a fluorescent yellow jacket. She thought about the touch of melancholy in Siobhan’s voice as she recalled not staying in touch with Lambert, and briefly regretted that no one from her past could provoke the same reaction in her. She tied up her running shoes, pulling the laces tight until it squeezed her feet and left the locker room.

As she left the changing room one of the uniforms, a constable by the name of Bickley, laughed. ‘Shit, I’m deaf,’ he said, pretending to shield his ears from the loudness of May’s jacket.

‘Very amusing. Better safe than sorry, don’t you think, Constable?’ she said, playing along.

‘No one’s going to miss you, that’s for sure, ma’am.’

May tried to run at least three times a week. It was five miles from the station to the house she shared with her father. He had moved in with her three years ago following the death of her mother. She couldn’t face him living alone, and they’d managed to make the living arrangements work.

Approaching rush hour, the roads next to the station were gridlocked with traffic. She started at a steady pace, her breathing increasing as she upped her pace. She noticed admiring glances as she ran but kept her eyes straight on the road ahead. Running gave her time to think. She never wore earphones like some of the other runners. She liked the sound of the world moving by, the rush of the air as she pounded the pavement.

It had been five days now since she’d been put in charge of the Souljacker case. Superintendent Rush had yet to apply any firm pressure. If it was the same killer, then it was the tenth victim in twenty-three years and although no one had come close to catching the killer, something about the way things were unfolding told her things were different this time. The link between Haydon and Nolan was crucial and in addition it was conceivable that lack of practice had made the killer sloppy. Seven different strands of unidentified DNA had been found at Haydon’s flat, but only one strain on the corpse. It had been found in Haydon’s hair but nowhere else in the house.

Now all they needed was a suspect to match the DNA on Haydon’s body. The thought drove her on, her pace increasing as additional adrenalin pumped into her bloodstream.

She started to tire four miles into the journey. Her legs filled with lactic acid as she tried to maintain her pace. It was unusual for her but not unexpected. She’d hardly slept since she’d been assigned to the case and her diet had been awful, cheap takeaways for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She needed an early night, a chance to clear her head but she’d suggested meeting Lambert later that evening. It had sounded like a good idea at the time but she was beginning to regret her decision. It had been impulsive, and if any of her previous staff appraisals were anything to go by, impulsiveness was her one major character flaw. It had led her into trouble more than once, both personally and professionally.

She pushed through the pain in her legs and increased her pace for the last mile. She liked to sprint the last few hundred metres home. She enjoyed the sensation of her body working at full throttle, everything pulling together, driving her forward. She reached the gates to her house and clicked her stopwatch. With her hands behind her head, she leant forward, her open mouth sucking air into her lungs.

‘Good time?’ asked her father as she opened the front door. He held a glass of red wine in one hand, the crossword section of the newspaper in the other.

‘It wasn’t a personal best,’ said May, her breathing returning to normal.

Her father went to reply. She could tell by the way he looked at her jacket that he was about to unleash some quip about the brightness of the material. He thought better of it, knowing her humour wasn’t at its highest at the end of a long run.

She read a few more chapters of Blood Kill before showering, and found herself relating more and more with the protagonist of the story. She sensed the man’s anguish as he searched for the killer of the blind girl and wondered if the real life Hastings would be similar to his fictional counterpart. Hastings had stipulated a meeting time of seven a.m. for tomorrow which had destroyed her plan of a good night’s sleep.

It was too late to cancel Lambert now. Anyway, she wanted to talk to him. He’d visited Sandra Vernon, and subsequently the minister of their small church, despite agreeing not to pursue his own investigation. She had to show him she should be taken seriously. What better way to do so than by going out for dinner with him, she thought ruefully.

She tried on a number of dresses before finding the perfect balance, a standard long-sleeve black dress which stretched below her knees. She scrubbed up well in the mirror but didn’t want Lambert to get the wrong idea.

She checked her email before leaving and was surprised to see an email titled:

Why did you ignore me?

At first she thought it was a joke but then she read the name of the sender, Sean Laws. She’d thought she’d imagined it, but it must have been him she’d seen on the way to the hospital. He hadn’t waved, so she hadn’t ignored him. She opened the email.

Hi Sarah, Only joking. I don’t know if you saw me but I spotted you out and about today. I’m in Bristol for a few days on work. I didn’t want to disrupt you. You looked so beautiful, walking along. It was really good to see you again. Maybe if you’ve time we could meet up for a chat?

He signed the email Sean with a solitary kiss and his phone number.

May slammed her laptop shut, her hands shaking. She had an absurd impulse to run down the stairs and tell her dad. Despite his age, she knew he would grab his coat and start scouring the city until he found Sean.

Sean Laws, the ex-boyfriend she’d once threatened to take to court.

Chapter 10

Lambert spotted the car two minutes after leaving the hotel. A silver Mercedes, this year’s plates, too grandiose to be police. Through the blacked out windows, he made out the vague silhouetted figure of the driver. He made a mental note of the number plate and took the short walk up Park Street to the restaurant, stopping occasionally to see if the car had followed him.

Twenty minutes early, he took a seat and ordered a cold bottle of lager as he waited for Sarah May to arrive. He’d left Klatzky at the hotel bar holding court with the four students from this morning, his concerns about the photos temporarily washed away.

Sarah May arrived at exactly eight o’clock. Dressed in a figure-hugging black dress, she carried a small handbag. Her hair hung loose on her shoulders, and Lambert wished he’d made more of an effort with his own appearance. He rose from his seat and offered his hand. She shook it, ignoring his awkwardness, her manner half-professional, half-cordial.

After ordering drinks, Lambert questioned May about her career. She described a meteoritic rise through the ranks that, to some extent, mirrored Lambert’s progress. She talked about her colleagues and some of the issues she faced as a woman in the force.

It began to feel like a date until May dashed that notion during the main course.

‘Now, Michael,’ she said, her tone snapping from casual to business-like. ‘I believe I told you not to follow your own investigation.’

Lambert straightened up in his chair. ‘You’re talking about my meeting with Sandra Vernon?’

‘Yes.’

His eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘You’re not having me followed are you, DI May?’

May blinked, her mouth curling into the slightest of smiles. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have resources for such frivolous behaviour. But I thought if you were the interfering type, and I thought that perhaps you were, your first port of call would be with Miss Vernon.’

He couldn’t tell if she was playing with him or if her annoyance was genuine. ‘You spoke to her today?’ asked Lambert.

‘After you visited her house.’

Lambert drank long from his glass of red wine, enjoying May’s scrutiny. Clearly he was being tested. ‘I was paying my condolences.’

‘That’s right. And the questions about Haydon’s father?’

Lambert laughed. ‘I wanted to pay my condolences to him as well.’

May leant in. ‘We’ve spoken to Mr Haydon. There’s nothing much to be gained from him. From the report I was given, he’s just a sad, washed up alcoholic.’

‘It was only condolences,’ said Lambert.

May lowered her voice. ‘Because you and Haydon were so close? Look, I understand the experience you can bring to the case. I’d be happy to share information with you but you must understand the complications that arise from you being involved. You’ve really pissed off Miss Vernon. It could damage our investigations.’

Lambert lifted his glass again and placed it back down without taking a drink. He’d been waiting for May to speak her mind. How the next few minutes went could possibly define their relationship. ‘I do appreciate that,’ he said. There was little the DI could do about his involvement and she probably understood that as well as he did, but he didn’t want to upset her at this stage. ‘I’ll keep a low profile for the time being,’ he conceded.

‘Thank you,’ said May.

They sat in silence for a time, Lambert sneaking the odd glance at his companion. He thought about his former colleagues, how rarely he had enjoyed a strong professional relationship with someone. He held onto his wine glass, went to speak and stopped.

‘What did you think of Miss Vernon?’ asked May, choosing to rescue him from his inaction.

Lambert sat back, decided he would trust May for the time being. ‘I would say eccentric if I was being polite.’

‘And if you weren’t being polite?’

Lambert thought about the coldness he’d sense from the woman, the hatred she’d vocalised about her ex-husband. ‘I couldn’t possibly say. Did you speak to her about her Terrence’s father?’

‘Not in great detail.’

‘Her reaction was over the top to say the least. I think you need to dig deeper, there’s something she’s holding back.’

‘Okay. I’ll question her again. You think the father is involved?’

‘Not directly.’ As this was a serial case it was unlikely the killer was a family member. ‘But there is definitely something she is not sharing. How about you, where are you on the case?’

‘You’ll know about the DNA found at the scene? No match on the databases, unfortunately. Our main area of investigation is the link between Haydon and Nolan.’

‘Makes sense. And the older cases?’ he asked, remembering what he’d read on HOLMES.

May tilted her head back. She didn’t answer immediately. Lambert sensed she was debating whether or not to share the information with him. ‘We’re looking at the older cases one by one. As you know, it’s nearly twenty years since the last murder. It’s possible something was overlooked in the past, or that there is a link we can tie in with Terrence Haydon.’

‘Anything significant so far?’

‘Not for me. There is a vague theory about churches at the moment. A high proportion of the victims were affiliated one way or another to a church. It might be significant but I can’t see how at the moment.’

‘Billy wasn’t religious,’ said Lambert, pleased that May was sharing the information even though he already knew it.

‘There you go. I was going to ask, have you ever done any cold case work on this over the years? I’m sure it must have been tempting.’

Lambert shifted in his seat. ‘I’ve tried to put it behind me. You can let these things define you if you’re not careful,’ he said, thinking that Billy’s death would always be a part of him even if he ever caught whoever was responsible.

After dinner, May walked him back to his hotel. She quizzed him again about the blank entries in his work record, the inquiry light-hearted.

‘There’s no great mystery.’ He’d drunk too much wine, her company relaxing him.

‘Who said anything about a mystery? Don’t hype yourself up.’ She gently shoulder-charged him, forcing him to stumble.

‘You’re quite impressive, DI May. I can never tell for sure if I’m being interrogated or not. Such confusion is not normal for me.’

‘I’m off the clock now,’ she said, as they reached the hotel entrance. She turned to him, her left cheek curling slightly into a smile: a beautiful and stark contrast to the snarl he’d seen earlier that day on Sandra Vernon’s face. He wondered what would happen if he leant in to kiss her, and took a step backwards realising he’d drunk even more than he’d imagined.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ said May, saving him the embarrassment. She offered her hand which he shook savouring the warm softness of her flesh.

He said goodbye and retreated to the hotel, a sudden sense of fatigue spreading through him. He spotted Klatzky in the hotel bar, his arms wrapped around the black-haired student from the morning. They were alone, two wine bottles on the table before them. Lambert tried not to think about how much it would be costing. He retreated upstairs before either of them saw him.

Back in his hotel room, he checked his email and phone messages. Sophie had left a voicemail asking when he would be home. She would be asleep now so he sent her a text. Restless, he logged into The System. As he was using the hotel’s Wi-Fi, he had to pass through a number of extra security measures before gaining access.

He checked Sarah May’s file first, verifying what he’d been told over dinner. He checked for updates on HOLMES, and saw the name of his ex-girlfriend, Siobhan Callahan. May had met her earlier that day, not long after speaking to him. DI May moved fast and hadn’t shared as much with him as he’d thought. He tried to picture what Siobhan would look like now. She’d been such a slight thing, wild, spikey hair, a tattoo on her shoulder. He couldn’t imagine her now, wasn’t sure he wanted to know how time had changed her.

He studied the rest of the Haydon file. He knew most of the document by heart now, but began reading from the start again. He always worked this way. The repetition helped him process the information, his mind working on the finer details he may have initially missed. Instead of merely scanning, he studied each page of the file, analysing the structure and each individual word of the report until it stopped making sense.

He switched off the light and lay on the bed listening to the hum of the air conditioning circling the room. His head was overrun with images. Sleep was elusive, the wine he’d drunk keeping him awake. Alone in the darkness, his thoughts always returned to his daughter, Chloe. During the day he tried to keep busy, distracting himself with the mundane activities of life. But she never totally left him. She lingered in the faces of strangers, her voice whispered in their conversations. At night he had no way of deflecting her. He tried to turn his thoughts to the case, but however hard he concentrated they spiralled back to Chloe. His throat constricted as he fought back tears. He snapped the light back on and left the room, in time to see Simon Klatzky, his arm draped across his young student friend, trying to open the door to his hotel room. Lambert stepped back and took the opposite route around the floor towards the lift.

It was eleven-thirty. Most of the city’s bars had kicked out. The day’s heat, retained by the tall city buildings, hung in the air. Lambert walked down the hill to the waterfront. He passed a group of leering men, and jaded women unsteady in their high heels. The river smelt dank and sulphurous. He crossed the road towards a large water feature which spewed jets of regurgitated water into the air. Youngsters sat on concrete walls and wooden benches smoking and nursing cans of energy drink.

As he headed out of the centre, he spotted the same silver Mercedes from earlier that evening, parked on a side street. He walked up Gloucester Road, trying to draw the car out. The area had improved since he’d been a student. Coffee shops, trendy bars and a multitude of restaurants lined the street. Yet, it still retained that air of darkness he’d always associated with the place, as if the bulbs in the street lamps were a few watts dimmer.

A group of six men in their early to mid-twenties passed him as he rounded a corner. One of their number barged into him, his shoulder forcibly jarring Lambert’s left arm. Lambert slowed down but the group didn’t stop. The man had probably been too drunk to even realise he’d made contact.

The car reappeared, two hundred yards in the distance. Lambert took a side street, and upped his pace along streets he didn’t recognise. He found himself in the St Pauls area. Most of his previous fear about the region had been the result of ignorance. At University, the talk at the student bar had been about gangs of locals who would attack any passing student, legends of smashed bottles and knife wounds. The St Pauls riots had occurred years before Lambert joined the University. It was decades ago now. In comparison to the streets and the estates he had worked on as a beat cop in London, this place was a wonderland populated by reasonably well-maintained Victorian houses, and the occasional new build.

The car still followed. Lambert knew he’d taken a risk leaving the main road. He continued walking until he came to a dimly lit subway which led to the drab grey buildings of the Frenton estate. Three youths guarded the entrance to the subway, all three were dressed in black hoodies and sat atop BMX bikes. Lambert put their ages somewhere between fourteen and sixteen. The youths glared at Lambert but said nothing as he walked past them, his eyes focused ahead. The subway tunnel smelt of stale urine and something akin to fungus. Damaged light bulbs flickered on the ceiling, highlighting images of crudely sprayed graffiti. At the other end of the tunnel were three almost identical youths. One of them stopped him.

‘All right?’ said the youth, in a thick West Country drawl.

Lambert lowered his head a touch. The boy hesitated and let him pass. Three high-rise buildings, grey and featureless, were the centrepiece of the estate. Light shone out from the buildings, the occasional blank face looking down on him.

He moved through the complex, the stench of rubbish bins billowing out from building one. Bin bags were piled high next to the entry for the stairwell. From one of the lower levels came the powerful thump of some form of dance music. To Lambert’s ears the bass was out of sync. The noise vibrated, shaking the windows. As he walked into the courtyard area, the stench of the dustbins was replaced by the aroma of something more exotic. Two men followed him into the poorly lit area.

They were both over six foot tall. The shorter of the two was black, dressed in dirty jeans and a navy blue hoody. The taller man was Mediterranean, possible Italian. He had thick broad shoulders and a fake diamond stud in his ear.