Dead Eyed. Matt Brolly

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      Landsdale was on his feet, mirroring Lambert. A smile still stuck on his face. ‘Bit Old Testament for us. Let me show you out, Mr Lambert.’

      Lambert ordered a taxi back to the city centre and waited outside the church for it to arrive. On the journey back, he replayed the meeting with Terrence’s mother. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but what he recalled most now was the coldness of her house. The sparse religious decorations, the hostility from the small bespectacled woman. Lambert hadn’t sensed much love for her son from Sandra Vernon, only the bitterness and hatred she felt towards her ex-husband. Lambert tried to picture what it must have been like for Terrence to be raised by such a woman and found himself feeling a bit sorry for Terrence’s father even though he had never met the man.

      Landsdale was less straight forward. He gave the outward impression of being approachable and helpful, but he had a touch of steel about him. He’d refused to be budged on Haydon’s father, even though Lambert was certain Landsdale knew where the man was. Something was going on with Sandra Vernon and Landsdale. They were hiding something whether it was relevant to Terrence Haydon’s death or not. Lambert was lifted by the thought. In his eyes, secrets were a sign of progress.

      Back in the town centre, he checked into the hotel at the bottom of Park Street, ordering a room for Klatzky. He sent Klatzky a text instructing him to pick up the room card from reception. He logged onto The System and checked HOLMES for updates. He was mildly surprised to see his name mentioned. May had reported meeting him for lunch, and that she had warned him not to start his own investigation. She had posted a picture of him as well as one of Klatzky. No mention of their meeting tonight had been entered.

      He read through the details of the previous Souljacker victims, starting way back with Clive Hale. May’s team had noted the transition in style of the killer from the first hurried job on Hale. How from Graham Jackett onwards, the killer had been much more meticulous from the eye removal to immaculate inscriptions carved onto his victim’s torsos. May had ordered a closer look at all the previous victims which made sense to Lambert. He was particularly interested in the connection between six of the victims who had all been members of a church of various denominations. Billy Nolan hadn’t attended church at any time during University but maybe there was some link from the past which had escaped the initial investigative team. Reading further, he realised that May would likely find out. She was due to meet the SIO on eight of the last ten Souljacker killings, Chief Superintendent Julian Hastings, tomorrow morning.

      It didn’t take long to find an address for Terrence’s estranged father. Roger Haydon lived in Weston-super-Mare, a small seaside town twenty miles from Bristol. Roger Haydon had been on housing and unemployment benefit for most of his life. One of May’s team, DS Jack Bradbury, had questioned the man. Haydon had claimed not to have seen Terrence since he was a child.

      Lambert ordered a late lunch from room service and called Tillman.

      ‘You’re not working for me, so you don’t need to call in and report,’ said Tillman.

      ‘I had an interesting chat with the DI on this case, Sarah May,’ said Lambert, ignoring him.

      ‘And I should be interested because?’

      ‘What’s my official classification, sir?’

      ‘You know that, Michael. Leave of absentia or some shit.’

      ‘She managed to obtain my personnel file. Well, parts of it. She thinks I’m a man of mystery.’

      ‘We all think that, Michael. Now if there is nothing else? We shouldn’t even be discussing this on the phone.’

      ‘It made me think,’ said Lambert.

      ‘A new one, but go on.’

      ‘About coming back.’

      Tillman didn’t respond. Lambert’s leave had been out of necessity. The accident had left him in an induced coma, followed by months of physical and mental rehabilitation. Tillman had never visited him during that time, but Lambert still received a small salary despite the accident occurring out of work.

      ‘Sir?’ said Lambert.

      ‘You want to come back?’ said Tillman.

      ‘I want to know where I would stand.’

      ‘We’ll meet once you’ve finished playing detectives,’ said Tillman, hanging up.

      Lambert placed the phone on the bedside table and collapsed into the softness of the bed. Talking to Tillman had deflated his new enthusiasm. He’d never blamed anyone else for what had happened to Chloe. He’d revelled in his guilt, replaying the incident time after time, day after day. He’d refused all offers of help, from his wife and extended family, from his work colleagues. He carried his child’s death around with him like a millstone, and it impacted on everything. His wife wanted nothing more to do with him, and Tillman knew he wouldn’t be ready for work until he had dealt with it.

      A tightness filled his chest, and he sat upright fighting the sensation. He stumbled to the bathroom and drank heavily from the sink tap. Forgetting his guilt would be a betrayal of Chloe’s memory but maybe there was another way to honour her. It could never bring her back, and he could never be redeemed, but he needed to move forward with the case.

       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.

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