Dead Water

by Matt Brolly

  He slept for three hours and reached Paddington station by six a.m. The station already teemed with commuters. Lambert booked his ticket and ordered a large black coffee from one of the shops in the large open-spaced concourse. He stretched his legs, alert and awake despite the meagre hours of sleep.

  Lambert had survived most of his adult life on three to four hours a night and hadn’t suffered any detrimental side effects until four years ago when the hallucinations started. They occurred when he was overly tired or stressed. He had self-diagnosed his condition as a rare form of narcolepsy. It was something he’d never had checked out, fearing that an official diagnosis would affect his work. He had learned that the hallucinations were a signal that he was ready for sleep. He could control them now, to an extent. Unfortunately, that had not always been the case.

  Lambert drank the bitter coffee, impatient for the train to arrive. May had yet to respond to his request for a meeting. He would give her until nine a.m. to reply to his email or his first destination would be her police station. Lambert watched the commuters and wondered if his own face mirrored the dull and sullen faces which hurried by him, everyone impatient and tired.

  A different type of figure emerged from the set of escalators which rose from the underground. The unsteady figure of a man dressed in faded jeans and tattered leather jacket staggered towards him.

  ‘Great,’ whispered Lambert to himself. He considered hiding from the figure but Klatzky had already spotted him.

  ‘Mikey,’ he said, a little too loud. ‘I knew you would be here.’ Klatzky embraced him.

  Competing odours overwhelmed Lambert. Sweat, cheap aftershave and stale nicotine were all linked by the reek of alcohol. Lambert kept his hands by his sides, tried to breathe through his mouth. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Simon?’ Despite the revulsion at Klatzky’s state, Lambert could not help but admire the man for finding him.

  ‘I knew Bristol would be the logical place for you to start,’ said Klatzky, slurring half of his words. ‘You never sleep, so it would have to be the first train. I’m coming with you.’

  Lambert took a couple of steps back. ‘You’re not going anywhere, except home. Do you have any idea what you look like? What you smell like for that matter? I wouldn’t even sit in the same carriage as you let alone share a train journey.’

  ‘I need to come with you, Mikey. Look, I’m not afraid to admit it but I’m scared. He’s back. I want to know what’s happening, why he sent me the pictures. You told me not to go home, so I didn’t.’ Klatzky eyes darted around the station, as if he was surprised by his location.

  Lambert shook his head. ‘You’ve been out all night?’

  Klatzky shrugged his shoulders, a grin spreading across his face.

  This was the last thing he needed. ‘Jesus. Listen, I’ll keep you informed. Where are you staying? Go and sleep it off. It’ll do you no good coming with me to Bristol.’

  ‘I need to know, Mikey,’ insisted Klatzky. He placed a shaking hand on Lambert’s shoulder, the leathery skin laced with wrinkles and a fine layer of black hair, the hand of a much older man. Lambert tried not to recoil from the touch.

  The train was about to depart. Lambert took another step back and Klatzky’s shaking hand fell away. If the killer had sent Klatzky the file to get Lambert involved then the fear he saw in his friend’s eyes was at least partly his responsibility. ‘Okay, Simon. You can come with me but you can’t interfere. Is that understood?’

  ‘You’re a saint, Mikey,’ said Klatzky.

  ‘Shall we go then?’

  ‘I need a ticket,’ said Klatzky.

  ‘Oh I see. I’ll get you one on the train.’

  Mercifully, Klatzky fell asleep before the train pulled out of Paddington station. He collapsed in a heap, his frail body lying at an awkward angle in the seats opposite Lambert.

  Lambert opened his holdall and searched its contents. He pulled out a newspaper, and the file he had compiled on the Souljacker murders. There was still nothing from May on his phone. The conductor approached and Lambert purchased a return ticket for Klatzky with his credit card.

  Klatzky snored himself awake as the train pulled into Swindon. His body spasmed, his head cracking against the underside of the table with a thud. Lambert tried not to laugh as the man composed himself.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’ said Klatzky, rubbing his head.

  ‘Fifty minutes or so.’

  Klatzky dusted himself down, his aged leather jacket creaking at each movement. He shuffled himself into position, sitting opposite Lambert. A waft of pungent air drifted across the table.

  ‘Your ticket,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll pay you back.’

  Lambert stopped the woman pushing a drinks trolley down the aisle of the carriage.

  ‘Coffee,’ groaned Klatzky.

  ‘Make that two,’ said Lambert. They sat for a while in silence. Klatzky wincing as he took the occasional sip of coffee.

  ‘What happened to us eh, Mikey?’ said Klatzky a few minutes later.

  Lambert was reading one of the three books he’d brought with him, a mostly useless textbook on lucid sleeping. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you remember those train journeys we used to take to Bristol on our way to University? We’d be half cut by now.’

  ‘You are half cut.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Klatzky. ‘What happened to you, anyway? You were so happy go lucky then. You didn’t take anything seriously, not even your degree. Now look at you.’

  ‘That was twenty years ago, Simon.’ Lambert linked his hands together and rested his chin on them, staring at Klatzky.

  In response, Klatzky leant towards him. Pointing his finger, he said, ‘We all grow up, Michael, but you changed. You’ve changed intrinsically as a person.’

  Lambert laughed, but felt his facial muscles tighten as his face reddened. ‘Intrinsically? What are you talking about, Simon?

  Klatzky slumped back in his seat. ‘If you don’t know what I’m talking about then there’s no point in explaining,’ he said. He drank the last of his coffee, screwing his eyes shut as he downed the dregs.

  Lambert thought about continuing the bizarre argument, realising it was pointless arguing with Klatzky when he was in this mood. He opened his newspaper and spent the rest of the journey skimming through the despairing stories, his thoughts constantly returning to the file in his jacket pocket and what it all meant. At face value, it didn’t make much sense. Serial killers like the Souljacker didn’t just take eighteen years off between killings. If it was the same killer then there must have been a reason for the killer to have stopped in the first place, and more importantly a catalyst which had propelled him back to work.

  Once in Bristol, they ordered breakfast at a small greasy spoon café outside Temple Meads station. Klatzky’s head drooped as they waited for their orders, his hangover clearly reaching its peak.

  A teenage girl in a pink apron placed their breakfasts on the table. She grinned, the white of her teeth obscured by a thick metal brace. Piling his fork with a mixture of sausage, bacon and egg, Klatzky perked up. With his mouth half full he mumbled, ‘So what are our plans for today?’

  ‘Well, I plan to go to the University and have a look at our old halls of residence. And if I haven’t heard back from her I’m going to call the lead investigator on the case.’

  ‘Are we going to get a hotel?’ asked Klatzky, slicing through an egg yolk smothered in ketchup.

  ‘No, I want to be out of this place by the end of the day.’

  ‘Oh come on, Mikey, we could visit some old haunts. For old times’ sake.’

  Lambert turned his face to the side, stretching his neck muscles. ‘It’s not a jolly, Simon. You asked me to help. This is work for me.’ He already regretted allowing Klatzky to accompany him on the journey, and sensed things were only going to get worse.

  Klatzky returned to his breakfast, sulking like a scolded child. ‘I was thinking of ca
lling the others,’ he said, a couple of minutes later. He finished his breakfast, wiping his plate clean with a thin slice of white bread. He looked Lambert in the eyes for the first time since they’d left the train.

  ‘That’s not a good idea,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Why not? We haven’t all been together for years,’ said Klatzky.

  There had been six of them in their group. They’d spent their three years at University together as the tightest of cliques, all deciding to reapply for halls in the third year. ‘There’s a reason for that, Simon.’ Lambert placed some money on the table and left the café before Klatzky could argue further.

  Over the years, Klatzky had been the only one who had tried to keep the group together. There had been the occasional impromptu reunion every few months after they’d graduated but the get-togethers had never been successful. They would initially start off well but after a few drinks it always became apparent that everyone was avoiding talking about Billy Nolan; it would reach the point where someone would mention his name just to break the tension.

  Then the bad memories would return and the drinking would intensify until everyone reached a state of maudlin drunkenness which would occasionally descend into bouts of violence.

  The others had all managed to put the Nolan incident behind them to one extent or another. Lambert knew getting the group together again would only reignite bad memories.

  They caught a taxi from the long line of black cabs outside the station. ‘You’re a bit young to be students,’ said the rotund taxi driver, after being told their destination.

  ‘We’re alumni,’ said Lambert, his tone suggesting that all forms of communication between the driver and his two passengers should now cease. Lambert had only returned to Bristol occasionally over the last eighteen years, mainly for work. The city had transformed in that time but the changes had been gradual. Lambert couldn’t date any of the buildings. It was only when the taxi pulled up outside their destinationthat he felt a stab of nostalgia. Klatzky was almost tearful as they left the car.

  ‘Can’t you feel it in your bones, Mikey?’ he said, stretching his arms out as if he wanted to embrace the building.

  Memories came to Lambert. Glimpsed images of the numerous nights out he’d enjoyed with his friends, of the girls he’d kissed, each memory tainted with the image of Billy Nolan, dead in his room.

  Inside, Lambert had to produce his old warrant card before the grey-haired man behind the security desk would allow them entry into their old hall of residence. They took the unsteady lift to the fifth floor, Lambert enduring the odour which resulted from Klatzky’s lack of personal hygiene. ‘When did you last shower?’

  ‘I was out all night before I met you at Paddington.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ said Lambert. Lambert had yet to tell Klatzky about Terrence Haydon. Klatzky was in too fragile a state at the moment to take in the news that he’d once known the latest victim.

  None of them had known Haydon well. He’d been an odd character who, like the report suggested, kept himself to himself. The other students had considered Haydon as somewhat of an eccentric. He’d studied Religious Studies and always carried a Bible with him, though Lambert could never recall him trying to push his views on anyone. He wasn’t even sure Haydon had been that religious. He couldn’t remember him being a member of the Christian Union.

  Although the halls had been refurbished they looked essentially the same to Lambert. More memories came to him, mostly childish recollections of late-night drinking, water fights in the corridor, desperate early mornings of coffee-fuelled revision and the occasional romantic encounter. Klatzky was once again close to tears. Lambert knew the man’s hangover was intensifying his emotional response but it didn’t make it any easier to endure.

  ‘Why are we here, Mikey?’

  ‘I thought it would do good to reacquaint myself,’ said Lambert. He didn’t want to explain to Klatzky that he wanted to revisit the beginning from a professional viewpoint. He had been in his early twenties when Nolan’s life had been taken. Lambert had been just another dazed student at the time. Although it was nearly twenty years later, Lambert thought there might be the opportunity to see something afresh. Something he may have missed, or had not been looking for all those years before.

  A middle-aged woman in a blue checked apron stopped them both. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, in a deep West Country accent.

  Lambert flashed his old warrant card. ‘I wanted to see Room 516,’ he said. When the cleaner showed him to a room halfway down the corridor Lambert realised the room numbers had been rearranged. The fifth floor had a rectangular corridor and Nolan’s room had been on the left-hand side corner with the window facing east onto the main road. Lambert followed his memory to where Nolan’s room should have been. On the door where Nolan had once lived hung a sign marked Storage Cupboard.

  ‘How long has this room been a cupboard?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘It’s always been a cupboard,’ said the woman.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Klatzky indignantly.

  ‘Listen, I’ve only been working here six years, love,’ said the woman.

  ‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ said Lambert. ‘Could we possibly look inside?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said the woman, producing a key. ‘I haven’t all day, mind you.’

  Shelves full of cleaning material and crisp folded sheets filled out the room. It bore no resemblance to the untidy and poster-ridden room which had once been Billy Nolan’s. The change of use had destroyed the room’s potency. Lambert had feared he would be overcome with more memories of that day. Now it was hard to believe the incident had ever occurred in such a space.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Klatzky. ‘This place is giving me the creeps.’ His eyes sagged towards his cheeks, his lips trembling beneath the random spikes of black and grey hair which sprung from his sallow face.

  ‘Simon, go and get a coffee or something down in the cafeteria. I’m going to have a look around. I’ll meet you in ten minutes.’

  Klatzky slumped off towards the lift. Lambert thanked the cleaner who locked the store cupboard giving him a confused and pitiful look. Once Klatzky was inside the lift, Lambert walked up the stairs to the sixth floor. He made a full circuit of the floor but couldn’t summon the memory of where Haydon had resided. A nagging sense told him that Haydon had lived almost directly above Billy Nolan but he couldn’t be sure. It felt too much of a coincidence. Before joining Klatzky for coffee, Lambert called Bristol CID and asked to be put through to DI May.

  ‘Can I ask what it’s regarding?’ enquired a female voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Tell her it’s about the Terrence Vernon case,’ said Lambert. Thirty seconds later a strong deep female voice said, ‘DI May, how can I help?’

  Lambert explained his position, telling May he was a former police officer who had important information about the Vernon case. Lambert presumed May had already discovered that Terrence Vernon was originally called Terrence Haydon, but wasn’t about to discuss the matter over the phone.

  ‘Where are you now?’ asked May.

  ‘In Clifton.’

  ‘Okay, there’s a little café on The Triangle called Liberties. Could you meet me there at midday?’

  ‘Done,’ said Lambert.

  Chapter Four

  Klatzky sat alone in the student cafeteria, woefully out of place. Facedown, he nursed a small coffee occasionally giving the students a suspicious look. He was at once vulnerable and unsettling, and the café’s patrons subconsciously sat as far away from him as possible.

  After Klatzky declined his offer of a second coffee, Lambert ordered a large black Americano from a young man behind the counter. Klatzky looked up at him with sullen eyes when he returned. ‘I thought I’d enjoy being here, Mikey, but there are way too many memories. Being here makes it feel like it happened yesterday. I can remember everything, what that sicko did to his body.’ Klatzky sipped at his coffee. ‘Christ, and
the smell, Mikey. I can taste it now more than ever. Do you ever feel like that? It’s part of me now. The blood and the smell…what was that stuff called?’

  ‘The incense?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He took another longer sip of his coffee as if trying to drown out the memory. ‘One good thing came out of it though,’ he quipped, ‘I never went back to church again. Too much incense in Catholic churches. I don’t even feel the need to go to confession.’

  ‘Small mercies, I guess,’ said Lambert. Pontifical incense had been found on the body of each Souljacker victim, and Billy Nolan had been no exception. Traces of the incense, which contained frankincense, matched that used by a number of Catholic churches in the country. However, the substance was freely available so it had proved impossible for any trace to be made.

  ‘Listen, Si, I have a meeting later with the officer in charge of the case. I have some information that she may or may not know.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Klatzky.

  ‘The body they found last week, the body in the pictures you showed me, were of somebody called Terrence Vernon.’ Lambert tensed waiting for Klatzky’s response.

  ‘Terrence?’

  ‘Yes, Terrence. I found out last night that Terrence Vernon was using his mother’s maiden name as a surname. He used to be called Terrence Haydon. Do you remember Terrence Haydon, Si?’

  ‘Mad Terry?’ Klatzky’s face fell, his eyes wide in recognition. ‘He killed Mad Terry? Fucking hell, Mikey. What does this mean? What the hell’s going on?’ His words came out in short, rapid bursts, oblivious to the other people in the room.

  ‘Keep it down, Si,’ said Lambert, through gritted teeth. A few of the students looked in their direction. Mad Terry had been the uninspired nickname given to Terrence Haydon whilst at University. The nickname resulted from a few eccentric behaviours, such as walking with long, exaggerated steps as he made his way around. ‘I don’t know. It’s partly why I need to see DI May. There are so many possibilities at this juncture it’s not worth hypothesising.’