by Matt Brolly
Duggan stood and smoothed out the crinkles in his suit. ‘Failure to report is a crime as well, DCI Lambert. I would suggest you decide which side you’re on.’
Chapter Eight
Lambert was still brooding over Duggan’s visit when he eventually reached his flat. Sarah hadn’t called, and he considered pouring himself a drink, before deciding he needed to keep his mind clear. He opened his laptop instead and logged into the System.
Whether out of spite, or to prove a point, Lambert typed Duggan’s name into the database. The Anti-Corruption cases were the few files not available to him, for obvious reasons, but Lambert was able to access Duggan’s personnel file. He skimmed through the pages, not finding much of interest. Duggan had a solid educational background. He moved straight into CID after his probation, and had spent five years on various teams before moving to Anti-Corruption, where he’d spent the last four years.
Lambert flicked through some of the officer’s cases prior to him joining AC. He often worked this way, accumulating what at first seemed to be useless information. He would examine case files over and over, searching for a word or visual clue which would unravel everything. Duggan’s last case before joining AC made for gruesome reading. A man, recently divorced, had turned a gun on his ex-wife and eighteen-year-old son. He’d then attempted to commit suicide but had somehow failed, shooting off most of his jawbone but surviving the gun blast. Lambert knew some of the names on the case file, officers and support staff he’d worked with before. Out of curiosity, Lambert clicked on the file of the gunman, Ross Wiseman. The man was still alive, currently under supervision at Broadmoor Hospital. He’d undergone reconstructive surgery, but his face was grotesquely misshapen. Lambert tried to imagine Wiseman’s life, having to relive what he’d done every time he looked in the mirror. Such incidents were usually the result of moments of uncontrollable rage, the archetypal crime of passion.
He clicked off and returned to Duggan’s file, before saving it for later study. He called Sarah again, annoyed when it went to answerphone. He didn’t sleep well at the best of times, even less so when working on an important case. He could survive with two to five hours sleep a night, but such sleep deprivation sooner or later resulted in a blackout. He slumped onto the sofa and switched on the television. Restless, he flicked though various channels, unable to concentrate for more than a few minutes on any one show.
Giving in, he brewed a pot of decaf coffee and returned to his laptop. Minimising Duggan’s file, he searched for arson cases in the last six months. The Chislehurst case was already showing. Chapman, the fire chief, had entered a preliminary report and Lambert was surprised to see that DS Croft had already written up her notes from the day.
He scanned Chapman’s entry first, gaining little additional information from their chat earlier in the day. Chapman was noncommittal, stating a need for further examination of the building. However, he alluded to five separate detonation sites, and repeated the similarities between the one incendiary device which didn’t detonate, and those of the infamous arsonist, John Orr.
Lambert looked Orr up and discovered he had worked as an arson investigator in the USA. It was believed he’d been responsible for over two thousand fires before being discovered.
The recovered incendiary device found in Chislehurst was almost identical to the type favoured by Orr. It had contained a box of matches wrapped in paper, cotton and what appeared to be bedding, held together by an elastic band. Instead of a lit cigarette, the device had been connected to an electronic timer, which had not been set. Chapman was doubtful they would be able to discover if the other detonations – which were activated – had used the same incendiary device. The only hope of uncovering further details would be when the arson investigators examined the place tomorrow.
Lambert ran nationwide searches on arson cases, attempting to uncover similarities with John Orr’s MO, but nothing promising appeared. The closest he found were a couple of home fires, where cigarettes were dropped onto bedding.
He read some more on Orr, fascinated by how the man had gone undiscovered for so long. At midnight he stopped reading. He considered calling Sarah but decided she would call when she was ready. Still fidgety, he lay on his bed hoping for a quick and easy sleep.
He must have dozed off at some point, as the next time he looked at his clock alarm it was three-thirty am. Knowing he wouldn’t get back to sleep again, he showered and changed and headed to the one place where his restless mind could do some good. The crime scene.
Chapter Nine
The security guard at the entrance to the estate took only a peripheral glance at Lambert’s warrant card.
Lambert glared at the man, who looked to be in his early twenties. ‘Were you working here last night?’ he said.
‘Nah, mate, agency,’ said the guard.
‘You’re from the agency?’
‘Yeah. Bloke from last night has had some sort of breakdown apparently.’
‘Have you worked here before?’ asked Lambert.
‘Once, ages ago.’
‘Out of interest, what security checks do they put you through to work here?
‘The agency?’
Lambert stared hard at the guard, ascertaining if he was purposely being obstructive. ‘Yes, what checks do the agency run on you?’
The guard stepped back a step. ‘Work reference, DBS check. Why?’
Lambert nodded and drove off. Aside from the haphazardly placed cameras, the security in the gated community was worthless. Lambert wondered what premium residents paid for the illusion of security, and how many of the residents would be negotiating a reduction following last night’s incidents. He made a mental note to check out the guard who was off sick.
He parked in the blind spot that Bickland had highlighted on the video earlier that day. Noting the static camera to his left, he crept through the darkness to the back entrance of the Jardine household. The air was still heavy with the smell of burning, despite the cold wind which gusted through the building. Lambert edged through the debris to the room where the two bodies had been discovered.
The image of the pair would forever be imprinted on his mind. Lambert had seen burn victims before, both alive and dead, but nothing which matched that particular image. It still troubled him, the pair lying next to each other on the sofa as if they’d given in. He knew they had been killed before the fire started, but the way they had been placed together haunted him. The image had a sense of theatre to it, as if the arsonist were making a statement.
He couldn’t sit on the remains of the sofa, so he perched in front of it, scanning the room, picturing the waves of flame which would have decorated the walls and rolled towards the already deceased victims.
A theory came to mind. It was probably too implausible, but he wanted to discuss the matter with the pathologist, Harrington, as soon as possible.
* * *
Lambert stopped at a newsagent on his way to the station and picked up a copy of Mia Helmer’s paper. He was relieved not to have made the front page, the story pushed back to page eleven. The text was similar to what he’d read at the meeting with John Weaver, and his pulse quickened as he read his own name before screwing up the paper and placing it into the nearest dustbin.
Bickland and Croft looked surprised to see him as they arrived at the station early that morning. Both carried coffee cups from the same high street chain, and it was clear they’d met up prior to entering the incident room.
‘Where’s mine?’ Lambert asked Croft, who grimaced as she took her seat.
‘The Family Liaison Officer is bringing Teresa here at nine-thirty,’ said Croft, trying to change the subject as she took her seat and switched on her PC.
‘I’m well aware of that, Sergeant. I would like you to interview the girl,’ said Lambert, receiving a glare from Bickland.
Croft stopped what she was doing and turned to face him. ‘What exactly to you want to get from her, sir? The girl is only three.’
‘Three-year-olds can be perceptive, Croft,’ said Lambert, remembering Chloe at that age. His daughter had been insightful, joining in conversations with opinions he’d often thought no three-year-old could hold.
‘I’m sure the FLO will stop you if your questioning gets too difficult. Try to find out what she remembers, but not just the fire. Anything out of the ordinary in the last week. Her parents’ behaviour, any conflict, you know the sort of thing. I’m sending you in as I imagine I could possibly scare her, and I know for a fact Bickland would,’ he said, with a smile aimed at Bickland, who shook his head, his eyes still glued to the screen.
* * *
Teresa Jardine was a sweet little girl with two bunches of raven-coloured hair. She walked hand in hand with the FLO into the station. Lambert shook hands with the woman who introduced herself as Geraldine Herbert. Lambert went down on his haunches so he was eye level with the girl. ‘Hello Teresa, my name is Michael,’ he said, smiling.
Teresa turned her head away, pushing it into the thighs of the FLO. Lambert stood back up, stifling a groan, his thighs burning, and offered a smile to the woman. ‘My colleague DS Croft will be speaking to Teresa. She’s waiting in interview room eight. Can we get you anything?’
‘Would you like some juice, Teresa?’ Lambert asked.
The girl nodded, never once letting go of the woman’s leg.
Lambert and Bickland observed from the video room as Croft won the girl over with the gift of a small teddy bear. The Family Liaison Officer watched with grim determination as Croft gently sought answers from the girl. The FLO had the power to cut the interview off at any time, and whilst Lambert accepted it was right that the child’s interests were a priority, he resented having to be on best behaviour for the woman.
He could see Croft was avoiding asking questions which were too direct. He accepted that as well. Teresa would not have been told her parents were dead yet, not until there was a formal identification, and Croft would have to be careful not to make any such suggestions.
Croft slipped the incident into conversation when she saw the opportunity. She was playing a game with Teresa, the girl’s new teddy bear making an imaginary journey across the wild lands of interview room eight’s carpet.
‘This is so much fun, Teresa,’ said Croft. ‘It’s so nice making new friends, isn’t it?’
Teresa moved the bear across the floor one stuffed leg at a time, a hint of a smile forming on her sullen face. ‘Do your Mummy and Daddy like new friends?’ she continued.
Teresa stopped, looking for reassurance from her carer. Geraldine smiled and nodded her head.
‘They have lots of friends,’ said Teresa.
‘That’s nice,’ said Croft, holding her own toy and bouncing along to Teresa’s rhythm. ‘Have any nice new friends been to your house recently?’
‘Abigail did,’ said Teresa.
‘Abigail, that’s a nice name,’ said Croft.
‘She goes to my preschool.’
‘Oh, OK. How about friends of your parents’?
Teresa sat the teddy down and glanced at the ceiling in contemplation. ‘There was a man who came around tomorrow.’
Croft hesitated before saying, ‘You mean yesterday.’
Teresa smacked her forehand gently with the palm of her hand. ‘Yes, yesterday, I meant.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great, do you know what his name is?’
‘Of course. The postman.’
Croft laughed and glanced at the two-way mirror as she wrapped up the meeting with Teresa. The young girl’s face twitched as she asked if she could keep the teddy bear Croft had supplied. It was such a simple gesture, an innocent request born out of politeness, but Lambert was deeply moved by it. He saw something of Chloe in the girl’s movements and he closed his eyes to shut out the comparison.
‘You OK, boss?’ asked Bickland.
‘Yeah, just a bit tired,’ said Lambert, leaving the room.
Rushing through the waiting area, receiving quizzical looks from the duty sergeant, Lambert barged through the station’s doors into the cold morning and dragged in a deep breath. It wasn’t very professional, but seeing that look on Teresa’s face brought back too many memories. He didn’t like to think about what lay ahead for the little girl, he couldn’t imagine how she could ever fully recover from the events of the last two days.
Without a coat, the air stung his skin as if he’d been slapped.
Lambert leant against the wall for a moment, watching the people walking down the street, oblivious to what was happening within the station and the lives that were slowly being damaged beyond repair. An approaching uniformed officer stopped by the entrance and stared at him.
‘What?’ said Lambert, not looking at the young woman.
‘I think your phone’s ringing, sir,’ said the PC.
Lambert reached into his suit jacket. Retrieving his phone, he frowned at the flashing number as if examining some foreign object. He shook his head, dragging himself back into the reality of the situation. ‘Lambert.’
‘Ah, Michael. Lindsey Harrington.’
It was the pathologist. ‘A pleasant surprise, Ms Harrington. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s more what I can do for you, Michael.’
‘You could get to the point, Lindsey, I’m rather busy.’
‘Feisty,’ said Harrington, a hint of amusement in her voice. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night – something troubling me about those two human bonfires. Decided to start the autopsy early.’
If it had been anyone else, Lambert would have surprised, but Harrington seemed to be a force unto herself.
‘Didn’t take me long to confirm my suspicions. You need to get down here, Lambert, pronto.’
‘Care to elaborate?’
‘I would love to,’ said Harrington. ‘I’ll go through the details with you when you arrive.’
‘The point being?’ said Lambert, growing impatient.
‘I can share one possibly telling point.’ She paused, clearly savouring the moment.
‘Stop pissing about, Lindsey, and tell me.’
‘Wait for it, Michael. OK, here goes. How best to say this? I know. I’m not sure who the two bodies found at the Jardine house belong to, but I can tell for a fact that they are not Caroline Jardine and her husband.’
White noise rang in Lambert’s ears. ‘Come again?’
Lindsey chuckled down the line. ‘Come visit me, Mikey. Whoever those poor folk are, they’ve been dead for some time longer than twenty-four hours.’
Chapter Ten
Lambert went back into the station to collect his belongings. He was about to leave when Croft entered the main area of the station, hand in hand with Teresa Jardine. Geraldine Herbert, the Family Liaison Officer, stood behind the pair. The fact that her face was formed into something resembling a smile suggested that she was not too unhappy about the situation. Lambert stood frozen. The news from Harrington had thrown him. He needed to speak face to face with her before informing the others.
Now he saw the child he had an overwhelming urge to tell her. But what could he say? There’s a chance your parents are alive after all? The thought that they were dead had probably not even entered the young girl’s mind.
‘Do you want to say goodbye to DCI Lambert?’ said Croft, crouching down on her haunches as Lambert had done earlier. ‘He’s very nice. He bought that teddy.’
Instead of clinging to Croft’s leg like she had to the FLO earlier, Teresa stood her ground and smiled at Lambert.
Lambert was surprised at the effect the girl had on him. Each time he looked at Teresa, he felt like Chloe was looking back at him. He crouched down and offered his hand.
‘It was an honour meeting you, Teresa,’ he said.
The girl laughed and looked at Croft before grabbing his hand and shaking it.
He stood quickly, dismayed at the twisted emotions he felt.
‘I’m off to the pathol
ogist’s office,’ he told Croft without looking back.
He caught his breath outside and headed towards the car. Teresa was not Chloe, and seeing his daughter in that little girl was indulgent and unhelpful.
As he drove he turned his focus back on to the case. If what Harrington said was true, then the case had become something far more complex than even a double homicide. Now there were four bodies, two unaccounted for. It appeared Lambert now had to solve the riddle of two missing people and two unidentified victims, as well as determining how the arsonist had somehow placed two corpses in the Jardine household whilst managing to subdue and kidnap two adults.
If nothing else, it was a sure sign that the security systems at the gated community were not very effective.
* * *
Dr. Lindsey Harrington’s office was situated in the basement of St. Matthew’s hospital. Lambert shuddered, the temperature dropping as he took the steps down into Harrington’s department, a faint hint of damp coming from the walls of the building. One of Harrington’s assistants, an obese bearded man Lambert thought was called Stowage, didn’t look up from his sandwich and newspaper as Lambert asked after her.
‘In there,’ said Stowage, still eating.
Lambert put on a clean surgical gown and mask before making his way through to Harrington’s lab.
‘You should have waited for me,’ he said, pulling down his mask for a split second.
The remains of the two bodies were laid out on separate gurneys.
‘Really?’ said Harrington, smiling as she examined the burnt tissue on a corpse’s neck. ‘Even if I didn’t know you, I could tell you hate being here.’
‘What?’ said Lambert, pulling off his mask in mock outrage as he edged closer to the tables. ‘I thought I was just following protocol,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘Very interesting,’ said Harrington. ‘Like I said on the phone, these are not the remains of Mr and Mrs Jardine – unless they’ve been missing for the last few days. Despite the fire, I was able to run a number of tests. There was no sign of rigor in the bodies at all, which suggests they died a minimum of thirty-six to forty-eight hours ago. There are also signs of decomposition in the internal organs. I would estimate the time of death to be at least seven to eight days. It could possibly be longer if the killer was keeping them somewhere cold.’
