by Matt Brolly
‘Sir,’ said Adrienne.
In the interview room, Hogg was wearing his hangover like a shroud. His shoulders were slumped so far towards the desk he sat behind that Lambert thought he was close to toppling over. When he looked up at Lambert, his eyes were bloodshot and his face pitted with dry scabs. ‘Is all this necessary,’ he said. ‘Am I even under arrest?’
‘I don’t want to charge you with obstructing an ongoing investigation. Answer some questions and you can be on your way.
Hogg tried to object but each movement appeared to be causing him pain. ‘I’ve told you everything.’
‘I need it on record and then you can go.’
Slowly, they replayed the conversation they’d had earlier that morning. Some of Hogg’s words were still slurred, the alcohol yet to have left his body, but he repeated what he’d told Lambert. If anything, he was more adamant that they were chasing the wrong person.
Lambert studied the man. He was clearly telling his own version of the truth. ‘Okay, you can go,’ said Lambert. ‘But I don’t want to see any of this in print. Do I make myself clear?’
Hogg pushed himself to his feet, closing his eyes as if the exertion of standing pained him. ‘I always liked Glenn. I hope you find him, Lambert,’ he said, staggering out of the room.
13
After debriefing the team, Lambert headed to the local coffee shop to do some research free of the cloying atmosphere of the office. The rest of the team were just as incredulous about Hogg’s assertion. Ever since he’d disappeared, everything had been focused on finding Wyatt. The rambling words of a journalist with a drinking problem were going to do little to persuade anyone that Wyatt wasn’t seeking revenge.
As he was leaving the building, Lambert was stopped by a familiar face. ‘Michael, I’m glad I caught you,’ said the man.
‘Sir, what brings you here?’
‘Conference, you know how it is. I was told this morning about your boss going missing and thought I’d pay you visit. See if I can help in anyway.’
The man in question was Chief Superintendent Julian Hastings. Hastings was the reason Lambert was a police officer. He’d been the officer in charge of investigating Billy Nolan’s murder and when Lambert had decided to pursue a career in the force, Hastings had given him tremendous support, advice, and, Lambert believed, a helping hand.
‘That’s very thoughtful. I could do with a quick coffee if you have a minute. I didn’t have the best of nights.’
Hastings nodded. ‘Show me the way.’
Lambert guided the man to a coffee shop close to the tube station. They walked in silence. Hastings had never been one for small talk. He walked stiffly next to Lambert. He was well over six foot tall, and looked even taller with his straight back and head held high. ‘What can I get you, sir?’ said Lambert, once they were in the shop.
‘Just a coffee.’
Lambert returned a few minutes later with two black Americanos. He hadn’t seen Hastings since his first year in the job though they talked occasionally on the phone. Hastings was of indeterminate age. He’d looked old when Lambert met him at university but looked no different now. He had the same angular features, the cold black eyes that matched the dry way he communicated. Although he’d helped Lambert considerably, he was not the sort of person Lambert wished to spend much time with. He was a stickler for rules and procedure and lacked anything in the way of a sense of humour. ‘Thanks, Michael. So this business with your boss. Glenn isn’t it, Chief Superintendent Tillman?’
‘That’s right.’
‘We’ve met a couple of times before. Seems the decent sort.’ Although Hastings meant to be kind, Lambert didn’t fully believe him. He imagined Tillman wasn't his sort of officer at all. He was too brash, bull-headed and had a lack of respect for authority that made Lambert feel subservient.
Lambert told him as much about the case as he wanted to share. After he’d finished, Hastings sipped his coffee and remained silent. Lambert couldn’t tell if he was deep in contemplation or was completely ignoring him. Eventually he said, ‘Who has most to gain by Devlin, Kirby, and Tillman being dead?’
Lambert took his own time responding. ‘Wyatt would have the satisfaction of seeing those who’d put him behind bars dead. Revenge is a powerful motive.’
‘And the journalist?’
‘Hogg? I’d concede his relationship with the man was strained but I can’t see it. I suppose he could be using Wyatt’s MO for effect and to take us off the trail but the man is a wreck. He couldn’t pull this off.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Hastings, taking another swig of coffee before standing. ‘Must get back to this damn conference,’ he said, by way of explanation as he shook Lambert’s hand.
‘Well, it was good to see you again, sir.’
‘You too, Michael. And please keep me informed regarding the case’
Lambert sat down and watched Hastings make his ponderous way out of the coffee shop and down the road. He wasn't totally surprised by the abruptness of the meeting - Hastings had always been a bit odd – but the encounter had been surreal and there had been a hint Hastings was withholding something. Hastings would be on first name terms with the Chief Constable and the doubting part of Lambert wondered if Hastings had been sent by Hickman to check up on him.
The meeting had made him think though. Of course, he’d already considered possible motives for Devlin and Kirby’s murder, and Tillman’s disappearance, but maybe they had been too focused on finding Wyatt. He’d seen similar things happen in other investigations. A reluctance to focus on other potential suspects when one appeared to be so obvious a culprit. Procedures were put in place to avoid this happening but it had happened. From the day Devlin went missing, all of Tillman’s focus had been on finding Wyatt and nothing had changed since. Although Wyatt was by a mile the obvious choice, maybe it was time to look at other possible suspects. As Hastings had said, who had the most to gain by Kirby, Devlin, and Tillman being dead?
14
The question Hastings had posed still reverberated around Lambert’s head as he returned to the office. It frustrated him that he still didn’t have any answer beyond Wyatt. He poured himself some lukewarm coffee and took all his case files and laptop into an interview room so he could concentrate undisturbed.
He started with Wyatt’s first victim, Michelle Lewis, and worked forward. The families of the two murder victims had been present at the bar on the day of Wyatt’s parole hearing, along with the Fowlers. The three families had been close to indistinguishable. Each carried the burden of grief and loss, even though one of their number had survived the ordeal. No one wanted Wyatt released but that was no reason to harm Devlin, Kirby, or Tillman. The three men had been responsible for Wyatt’s arrest. If any of the families had been out for revenge then surely they would target Wyatt himself, and if not him the Parole Board who’d decided he was free to return to society.
Still, Lambert read through all the details they had on the family members. The surviving parents were all retired. Lambert could only imagine the pain of approaching old age with the grief of a dead child to contend with. He recalled the deathless stares of Mr and Mrs Lewis with their respective partners. He’d seen as much in Mr and Mrs Fowler and, though perhaps they should be grateful for the child that survived, they still grieved for the daughter they’d effectively lost that day – the woman Alice Fowler could have become.
Out of all the family members, only Lewis’s younger brother seemed to have made something of a life for himself. He was a senior architect at a city firm, following in the path his sister would have taken. There had been so many people at the bar that day but Lambert remembered the man from his photo. He’d been well dressed, with perhaps an air of impatience about him. It can’t have been easy for him either, living with his sister’s loss and within the shadow of that death. Just the thought reemphasised to Lambert the greater tragedy of violent crime; the rippling effect it had through families and communities.<
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Trying to banish thoughts of Billy Nolan, Lambert turned to Devlin and Kirby. Both had left widows but neither had children. After leaving the force, Kirby had gone into security eventually starting up his own successful business whereas Devlin had moved into the pub trade working his way up to regional manager. There was little about their time in the police save for old case reports. Most of what Lambert knew from that time had come from Tillman, and was clouded by Hogg’s subsequent revelation about the night of Wyatt’s arrest. He searched through the old case notes, hoping for a hint about their characters, but couldn’t find anything of relevance. It still made perfect sense that Wyatt would come after them, both for his incarceration and their attempt at his life.
Lambert slammed shut his laptop and swore out loud, receiving a startled look from a junior officer who’d been walking by the office door.
Was he wasting his time? All their efforts should be on locating Wyatt, so why was he bothering with all this stuff? He closed his eyes and sighed. Last night’s lack of sleep was hitting him and he would have loved nothing more at that second then to fall on the floor and catch a few minutes respite. But there was no time for that. He returned to the files, knowing an answer possibly waited for him there. It wasn’t instinct and he didn’t believe in hunches. It was method. He’d worked this way countless times before. If there was a clue to Wyatt’s, and hopefully Tillman’s, location then he had to trust himself that he would find it. And the more he read and studied, the greater the chance of that happening. He had to ignore the other side of that fact, the argument that there was no clue waiting for him. It was a possibility he accepted but it wasn’t something he could allow to derail him.
He rubbed his right hand across his face and picked up the notes he’d collected from Hogg’s place. He’d made a cursory glance earlier and wished he’d looked closer. The transcripts from Hogg’s interviews with Wyatt were fascinating. As the journalist had suggested, Wyatt was very intelligent. He talked eloquently on justice and psychology. When Hogg questioned him about the reasons for him being incarcerated, Wyatt didn’t try to absolve himself from guilt. He admitted he’d done wrong and would forever be haunted by his actions. He’d planned to dedicate himself to helping victims of crime if he was ever allowed to leave prison.
Lambert imagined it was exactly what a Parole Board would love to hear and as much as he searched for a hole in Wyatt’s responses - a suggestion he was manipulating Hogg to his own end - he couldn’t find one.
‘I’m not the person I once was,’ Wyatt had told Hogg. ‘But that does not free me from what I have done. I understand that now. I don’t expect the families to ever forgive me. But maybe one day I can give something back. Atone in some small part for my crimes.’
Lambert collated the transcripts, meaning to take them home that evening to reread. If Hogg was planning to write a book, he certainly had all the notes. Lambert searched through the other entries. There was little from the time of the original murders but looking through his notes, it looked as if Hogg had planned to speak to both Devlin and Kirby before they’d been killed. Tillman’s name was also on the list, but that wasn't the name that stopped Lambert cold.
It was another name, someone Hogg had spoken to that made Lambert pack up his things immediately and leave the office.
The embryo of an idea grew as Lambert approached Hogg’s flat. He needed to speak to the man again to find out why he hadn’t mentioned the meeting in his notes. It could be innocuous but something about the way the meeting was entered in his diary suggested it had a greater significance.
Although Hogg wasn’t under caution, Lambert had requested he go home and stay there, and the journalist had agreed. However, Lambert wasn’t overly surprised when he didn’t answer his door. He’d called him on his way over and each time the call had rung out. He tried him again and cursed under his breath as the phone kept ringing.
15
Every fibre of Tillman’s being was on fire. The pain wasn't isolated. It coated him as if he’d been skinned alive and his nerves were exposed. A distant part of him– a part not retreating into itself, not overwhelmed by the tears which flowed from his eyes to meet the puddle of water at his feet – marvelled at how such an innocuous action could cause such catastrophic consequences. Armed with just a rag and a tub of water, Wyatt had inflicted a pain Tillman had never known; a pain he would do anything to end. As he flitted in and out of lucidity, Tillman conceded the pain was mainly psychological but that acceptance didn’t help. He thought he was a hard man, perhaps not as tough as the personality he portrayed at work, but harder than most. His experience here had destroyed that illusion of himself. He couldn’t quite remember if he’d begged the last time, asked Wyatt to put a bullet in his head, or if he’d fantasised that in the ensuing nightmares. Now he wished for nothing more than that sweet oblivion.
He cowed as the door creaked open once more. Surely he couldn’t be back already. It had been dark the last time he’d been here and it was dark now but time was an irrelevance. It could have been hours, it could have been days, since Wyatt had last been here.
Tillman’s body reacted involuntarily as Wyatt approached. It slithered away from the man, pulling at the shackles holding it in place, while Tillman’s mind welcomed the approach. Hopefully this was it. He didn’t want to endure the torture again, but if it was to be the final time, if it would all be over, then he would welcome even that.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Wyatt, speaking behind the muffled protection of his mask. ‘We won’t be doing that again just yet so you can relax.’
Tillman blinked, regaining his composure, ashamed by the tears still continued streaming from his eyes. Even in the extremis of despair, the detective side of him still searched for an opportunity. Wyatt had left the door open an inch and through the gap came the smell of burning wood, the distant noise of traffic. It gave Tillman a glimmer of hope and he didn’t beg.
Sensing his attention was elsewhere, Wyatt looked behind him. ‘My mistake,’ he said, shutting the door and momentarily cloaking them both in darkness.
When he switched the torch on it was pointed directly at Tillman’s eyes. Despite himself, Tillman let out a little yell of surprise.
‘We need to wake up a bit, Mr Tillman. We have a lot to accomplish this evening.’
‘It’s not too late for you, Wyatt. Stop this now and I can help you.’
Wyatt chuckled and even beneath the mask Tillman thought the laugh sounded, if not familiar, then recognisable. Wyatt lifted the beam of the torch over Tillman’s head. ‘He’s behind you,’ he whispered.
Tillman’s breathing intensified as Wyatt moved closer. He wasn't carrying a bucket of water or rag but Tillman’s body couldn’t help but respond to his presence. It was all he could do not to scream as Wyatt moved passed him. Tillman turned his head at the sound of creaking wood and was surprised to see Wyatt pull at a hidden panel. With his neck crooked at a painful angle, Tillman watched Wyatt clamber through the opening and disappear within. The light vanished and for a second Tillman was swamped by the comfort of darkness, only for the torch beam to return as Wyatt pulled another panel clear to reveal a hidden door.
‘Ex-builder you see. I started work on this a year ago when I suspected something might happen.’
Tillman turned away from the beam of light. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he asked, though subliminally he’d began to accept that he was facing a different narrative to the one he’d become stuck on.
‘Here, let me,’ said his captor, loosening the chain that linked his cuffs to the metal rod behind the chair. ‘You can stand,’ he said.
Tillman didn’t know if he had the strength but wasn't about to let the man know that. He’d stretched his legs as best he’d could during his captivity, trying to keep his muscles in working order, but of late his willingness to do so had faltered. With his hands cuffed behind him, he attempted to push himself up from a squat position only to fall forwards. There was nothing
to stop him and he hit the ground face first. Fortunately, the distance was not great and he escaped the fall without serious damage.
‘Now that wasn't very gracious,’ said the masked man, dropping the torch and dragging Tillman to his feet.
Tillman’s legs were still unsteady and he was all but shoved through the opening where the source of the hum that had plagued him since day one was revealed.
The secret room was all but filled with an ancient deep chest freezer, and Tillman knew before the man opened it what he would find within.
16
Would Hogg have told anyone else about what happened all these years ago? Lambert hated indecision but he found himself standing outside the entrance to Hogg’s flat, not sure what to do next. He had too little to take any action beyond tracking the journalist down. Anything else would feel like overkill, the work of a hunch and he didn’t operate that way. He desperately needed to speak to Hogg but what if he was right? What if the entry in Hogg’s notes changed everything? Despite the brittle information, he called Adrienne.
‘Shall we put someone there?’ she asked, not giving any indication to what she thought about Lambert’s theory.
‘You took the words out of my mouth, Adrienne.’
‘I wish I hadn’t answered now,’ said Adrienne, already resigned to a night of sitting in her car.
‘It shouldn’t be for too long. Just keep an eye on the place. Once I’ve located Hogg I’ll update you.’
‘Sir,’ she said, hanging up.
Decision made, Lambert began his search for Hogg. He started with the most likely place – the nearest pub. Unfortunately, Hogg’s flat was only a short walk from a number of bars. Lambert trudged from one to the next. He had no photo of Hogg so had to rely on a description and a sweep of each place. In bar six on the Barking Road, The Boleyn, he got lucky. The landlady knew Hogg. Apparently he was a regular, but he hadn’t been in all day. Lambert gave her his card but understood from the landlady’s demeanour that she wouldn’t be calling him if Hogg made an appearance.
