by Matt Brolly
Lambert made his way down Green Street, past the West Ham football ground. He half expected to see Hogg curled up in the corner of a side street, nursing a bottle of whisky. He’d obviously taken Tillman’s disappearance badly. Maybe he’d felt the same way when Devlin and Kirby were killed. He may not have been on best terms with the men but they’d been to university together and had a shared history. And Lambert couldn’t dismiss the other possibility: that Hogg felt guilty.
He saw him as rounded the corner to the Red Lion pub. Hogg was leaving, surprisingly steady on his feet, and when he saw Lambert he stopped dead as if considering whether or not to run. As Lambert approached, Hogg’s head fell to his chest. ‘DCI Lambert,’ he mumbled.
Lambert decided not to push Hogg as to why he hadn’t answered his phone earlier. ‘Dan, how are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ said Hogg, lifting his head to make eye contact. Even in the gloom of early evening, Lambert could see the thin bloodlines snaking across the whiteness of Hogg’s eyes. ‘Listen, I know you said I should go straight to my flat, but I couldn’t face being alone.’
‘I understand. Shall we go back inside?’ asked Lambert, too desperate for answers to endure a long walk back to Hogg’s flat.
‘I can think of nothing better,’ said Hogg.
Inside, Lambert watched the journalist make his unsteady way to a corner booth as Lambert ordered the drinks – the weakest bitter he could find for Hogg, and a mineral water for himself.
Hogg grimaced as he took a swig of the red-brown liquid. ‘What is this piss?’
‘Probably more than you should be having. Have you been drinking ever since you left the station?’
Hogg shrugged his shoulders. ‘What else am I going to do?’
‘This has really hit you hard, hasn’t it?’
Hogg took another sip, not grimacing this time. ‘My relationship with Glenn is a strange one. We’re not quite friends, not quite enemies. But I don’t want anything to happen to him.’
‘And the others?’
Hogg took another sip as if he had to drink between each utterance of breath. ‘I didn’t care for Devlin or Kirby. Not at University, not when they were officers, and not in later life. They were the wrong sort. Knew it then, and I know it now. However,’ he added, pausing to finish his pint, ‘I would not wish what happened to them on my worst enemy.’ He lifted his empty glass towards Lambert, his eyes pleading for a refill.
‘In a minute, Daniel, this is important.’
Hogg placed the glass on the table, and for one terrible moment Lambert thought he was about to cry. ‘I’ve told you all I know, DCI Lambert.’
‘The night when Alice was rescued. You said Glenn told you about that when he was drunk.’
‘Pissed worse than I am now.’
‘And he swore you to secrecy?’
‘As much as a drunk man can. Lots of talk about being off the record.’
‘But you told someone else, didn’t you?’
‘I told you, Lambert, but that was to save Tillman.’
‘Not me,’ said Lambert, raising his voice. He wanted Hogg to come clean, didn’t want to force the story from him. ‘Who else did you tell?’
‘No one, I swear,’ said Hogg, his face a mask of confusion.
‘I’ve read through your notes. Think about it, Daniel.’
Hogg shook his head, searching for the memory. Then it appeared to come to him, his eyes widening as he considered the implications. ‘I don’t think that makes a difference,’ he said shaking his head.
‘Who did you talk to, Daniel?’
Hogg glanced at his empty glass, as if for moral support, and then told Lambert what he already knew.
17
Lambert called Adrienne as he made his way to the Fowler household. It was all conjecture at that moment but he needed other eyes there. The only other person Hogg had told about what had happened that night by the river had been Tom Fowler. On its own, that knowledge didn’t mean much but Fowler had never mentioned it to Lambert and he needed to know why.
Adrienne confirmed she was stationed outside the house.
‘Who have you seen entering and leaving?’ asked Lambert.
Adrienne sighed, as if surveillance was beneath her. ‘The daughter, Alice, arrived at the house thirty minutes ago. I presume from work. Aside from that, no comings or goings. Care to update me on why this is important?’
‘Did you see anyone else in the house when she entered it?’
‘No, but the light in the front room was switched on at five forty-five pm so someone else is at home.’
‘Keep me updated,’ said Lambert, hanging up.
The Fowler’s house was only a couple of miles away in Poplar. A number of scenarios played through Lambert’s mind as he approached the house. In an investigation such as this, there was always a danger of narrowing your options. The presumption all along had been that Wyatt was responsible for the murders of Devlin and Kirby. It was the logical conclusion. A released murderer, convicted for drowning two women, kills the two men responsible for his incarceration and kidnaps the third. It was even easier to make that assumption with the knowledge that Devlin and Kirby had also tried to kill Wyatt. But what if they’d been wrong all along? What if the killer was using Wyatt’s past as a cover for their actions.
Lambert parked up next to Adrienne’s car. A hint of ammonia hung in the air as he left his vehicle. Close by he heard the hum of the DLR, the overground track running close to the river. Adrienne wound her window down. ‘Sir,’ she said, slouched in the driver’s seat as if she’d been there all day.
‘Adrienne. I need to speak to the Fowlers. Secure the rear of the property.’
Adrienne straightened in her seat, pleased to see some action. ‘Expecting a runner?’ she asked, leaving the car.
‘I’ll update you when I’ve spoken to the Fowlers,’ said Lambert, understanding Adrienne’s desire for some answers.
Alice Fowler answered the door. She worked part-time in a local supermarket and was still wearing the uniform. She looked tired and withdrawn, older than she’d looked the other day. She stared at Lambert for a couple of seconds before she recognised him. ‘Mr Lambert,’ she said, unsure of herself.
‘Hello Alice, how are you?’
Alice nodded as if that was an answer enough.
‘Who’s at the door?’ came a shout from within the house.
‘It’s Mr Lambert, Mum. From the police.’
Lambert waited by the front door as Mrs Fowler joined her daughter. ‘Well, don’t let him stand there, invite him in,’ she said, shaking her head at her daughter as she made eye contact with Lambert.
Alice blushed and pointed inside the house. ‘Thank you, Alice,’ said Lambert, following her mother inside. The interior was stifling hot, the smells of cooking – fried onion and fish – hanging in the air.
‘Can I get you something to drink, Mr Lambert?’ asked Mrs Fowler.
Thank you. A tea would be wonderful,’ said Lambert, remembering the instant coffee he’d endured on his last visit to the house.
‘Alice,’ said Mrs Fowler, taking a seat on the flower-patterned sofa. ‘Please,’ she said to Lambert gesturing to an armchair next to the window.
Lambert’s skin prickled with sweat as he took a seat, the armchair situated next to a radiator turned up to maximum. Neither Mrs Fowler nor Alice appeared to notice the cloying heat. Alice hovered as Lambert accepted a milky tea from her.
‘Sit down, Alice. So how can I help, Mr Lambert?’ said Mrs Fowler.
Lambert was surprised by the woman’s confidence. On the previous occasions he’d met her, she’d been as timid as her daughter. Without Mr Fowler in the room, she’d taken over the role of head of family. ‘I’m here to see Tom,’ said Lambert. ‘Mr Fowler.’
‘I’m afraid he’s not back yet.’
‘Back from where?’ asked Lambert, keeping his voice light and neutral.
Was there a flash of indecision in Mrs Fowler’
s response? Her hand went to cover her mouth as she thought about a response, a sign of potential deceit. Her eventual response was defensive. ‘I’m not his keeper. He said he was going out earlier and he’s not back yet.’
‘So you don’t know when he will be back?’
‘No.’
‘I see. Do you have a phone number for him?’
‘I’m afraid he doesn’t have one of those mobile things. We’re not really cut out for modern gadgets.’
Sweat dripped from Lambert’s brow. He couldn’t understand how the two women could function in such an atmosphere. ‘It is rather important, Mrs Fowler. Do you have any idea where we could locate him?’
‘What’s this about?’
Lambert paused. Had Fowler shared the information with his wife? That Devlin, Kirby, and Tillman had the chance to kill Wyatt but Tillman had stopped it happening. Would it have mattered? It was arguable that twenty-five years in prison was in itself a life sentence, though he doubted the Fowlers saw in that way. ‘I really do need to see him,’ said Lambert, with more force than before.
‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ said Mrs Fowler, losing some of her earlier confidence.
‘You must have an idea where he is. My colleague is missing, Mrs Fowler, I can’t stress enough how important it is that I speak to Mr Fowler.’
The indecision on Mrs Fowler’s face was evident. She would make a poor poker player. Her eyes twitched, her lips moving as if she was speaking to herself. ‘He told me he would be back late,’ she said, her resolve fading.
As she spoke, Lambert caught Alice’s eye. The woman looked closer in age to her mother than the last time he’d visited. They could easily pass for sisters which was more a comment on the way Alice had aged rather than a compliment to her mother’s youth. ‘Alice, do you know where your father is?’
Alice glanced at her mother searching for permission. Mrs Fowler grimaced. With Lambert there she couldn’t easily dismiss her daughter. He saw the hint of warning in her narrow eyes but Alice had already turned away.
‘You could try his allotment,’ she said, gazing downwards as if speaking to the carpet.
‘His allotment?’
‘Yes, he goes there all the time. Even more recently.’
‘Where is his allotment, Alice?’ said Lambert, heart racing and not only from the heat.
Alice glanced at her mother who appeared to be on the verge of tears. ‘By the river,’ she whispered.
18
‘This is what you should have done,’ said the man, showing Tillman the frozen corpse of Joseph Wyatt. ‘Don’t worry, I drowned him first.’
The light from the freezer shone on Wyatt’s frosted skin, his face caught in a comical look of a surprise. ‘Why don’t you take your damn mask off now, Fowler,’ said Tillman.
The masked figure nodded and Tom Fowler removed his mask. ‘Very good, Chief Superintendent.’
‘What the hell are you playing at Fowler?’ said Tillman, taking some encouragement from Fowler revealing his identity. Now he could read the man’s emotions, and could attempt to manipulate them to his will.
‘I found out.’ In the glow of the freezer light, and without his mask, Fowler looked his age. Tillman had experienced first hand the man’s strength but there was a weariness to his eyes that suggested the killings had taken their toll.
‘Found out what?’
‘That night. When you found Alice.’
‘What about it?’
‘You had the chance to kill him. Wyatt.’
‘Who the hell told you that?’ said Tillman, his mind reaching for a drunken memory.
‘Your journalist friend.’
Hogg. Just perfect. What the hell happened to off the record? ‘Don’t believe what you read in the papers, Fowler. You’re old enough to know that.’
‘You stopped them. Devlin and Kirby. They wanted to drown him and you stopped them.’
Tillman struggled in the chair. He didn’t care what the man had endured, he had no right to take lives. He could understand his desire to kill Wyatt, but Devlin and Kirby? If he could get loose of the binds, he wouldn’t hesitate handing out his own form of judgement on Fowler. ‘I saved your daughter’s life. Isn’t that enough for you?’
‘It’s why I kept you for last but you should have let them do it, Tillman. You didn’t save my daughter. Maybe if Wyatt had died she wouldn’t be…like she is.’
‘You still have a daughter, Fowler. You should be grateful for that. I’m sure the Lewises and Bradfords would change place with you without a second thought.’
‘You don’t understand, Tillman, how could you? He took her away that night and she never returned.’
‘You think if we’d killed Wyatt all those years ago it would have made a difference?’
‘We could have gone on with our lives knowing he was dead,’ said Fowler, raising his voice. ‘You have no idea what it’s been like for us, watching our daughter slowly dissolve before our eyes and all in the knowledge that one day that monster would be released.’
Tears fell from Fowler’s eyes, but Tillman had no sympathy for the man. ‘If we’d killed him, all three of us would have ended up in jail and you wouldn’t have seen justice for what Wyatt did.’
‘Justice?’ screamed Fowler, rushing towards Tillman. He thrust his forehead against Tillman’s, spittle dripping from his mouth. ‘They gave him an education and let him out. Alice never went back to university. She was left with nothing. No career, no future. She’s scared of her own fucking shadow and you talk to me about justice?’
‘You don’t want to do this, Tom. I’m not to blame for what happened, I think you know that. You have Wyatt. It’s over. I saved Alice, Tom. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you kill me as well.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ said Fowler, placing a hood over Tillman’s head.
19
‘Will you come with me, Alice?’ asked Lambert.
‘She’s going nowhere’ said Mrs Fowler.
Lambert had acted on instinct. He still couldn’t believe Tom Fowler was involved with Tillman’s disappearance. Although active and fit, the man was in his late sixties. Could he really have overpowered Tillman and the others? Retribution could be a driving force, but abducting the three men would not have been easy. ‘Do you know what is going on here, Mrs Fowler?’ asked Lambert.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you know. I think you both know. Is Mr Fowler keeping my colleague at the allotment?’
Mrs Fowler failed to meet his eyes. ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ she mumbled, as if trying to convince herself.
‘What has he told you?’
Mrs Fowler shook her head and began crying. ‘Nothing, as always. He’s been acting so strange these last few months but I can’t believe he would do something like this.’
‘He loves your daughter, doesn’t he?’ asked Lambert, causing Alice to stare at her mother.
‘Of course he does. He loves her like nothing else, me included.’
‘Don’t say that, Mum,’ said Alice, moving to her mother and tentatively placing an arm around her.
‘It’s true and it doesn’t matter. We both love you Alice.’ The words sounded forced and Lambert wondered when the last time her mother had said those words to Alice was.
‘Then let her come with me. If anyone can stop your husband doing something stupid it will be her.’
Lambert called Adrienne and instructed her to wait with Mrs Fowler.
‘What about back up?’
‘Call for back up to come here but I don’t want anyone going near the allotment and scaring Fowler off.’
Lambert was about leave with Alice when she broke down. ‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘It’s ok, Alice. I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.’
‘I just can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t want to see.’
Alice began crying and Lambert understood Tom Fowler’s anger. Twenty-five years on a
nd still Alice couldn’t escape what had happened to her. Wyatt had destroyed her life just as much as if he’d managed to kill her. ‘Ok, Alice, you stay here with DS Corrigan.’
‘My Dad will be ok, won’t he?’
‘I’ll do my best to stop anyone else getting hurt, Alice, I promise.’
As Lambert made the short distance to Fowler’s allotment, Lambert wondered how much Alice knew about her father and what she’d expected to see.
Mrs Fowler had given him a layout of the allotment fields that were much larger in scope than he’d anticipated. Lines of mini patches of field stretched into the distance, interspersed with the occasional building, everything clouded by the gloom of night. A small tarmac road divided two sides of the allotments but the main gate was locked shut so he couldn’t drive inside. It was eight pm, the allotments deserted. A sign outside gave the name of emergency contact should anyone wish to gain access but Lambert had no time for that. He had two options: use bolt cutters to break the lock or scale the seven metre high fence. Although he had the necessary tools in the boot of his car, he chose the latter. If Fowler was somewhere inside, it would make it harder for him to escape and he didn’t want to have to explain a broken lock, should his search prove fruitless.
The fence was sturdy enough to carry his weight. He threw his coat over the jagged top and hurtled over, his fingers gripping the other side of the fence as he dropped over. Lambert withdrew his baton as he made his way across the tarmac pathway. Fowler’s allotment was situated to the rear of the site. Lambert shone his torch on the map Mrs Fowler had given him and tried to work out his bearings. He’d never seen the attraction of allotments before but as he walked the small incline he was taken in by the peace and isolation. It was like a little island of tranquillity and though he couldn’t picture himself here – he’d never grown anything in his life, and was too restless to spend more than a few minutes on his own doing nothing – he could see how people could be drawn to such a place.
