Dead Embers

by Matt Brolly

  Linklater’s office was more impressive than Lambert had envisaged. Recently decorated, it was sparse and minimalist. Linklater sat behind a wide glass topped desk, on top of which was a widescreen monitor with the Apple logo stencilled in grey on it. ‘Take a seat,’ said Linklater.

  ‘Thank you. There’s no easy way to tell you this, Mr Linklater,’ said Lambert, deciding not to wait, to see if he could ascertain anything in Linklater’s response. ‘It seems that the two bodies recovered from Mrs Jardine’s house did not belong to her or her husband.’

  It was the subtlest of movements, but Linklater reached for his wedding finger. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘After post-mortems, it was discovered that the two bodies belonged to another pair of individuals.’

  Linklater grimaced, his eyes narrowing. ‘Sorry, I’m lost here. Are you saying Caroline is alive?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Possibly?’ said Linklater, raising his voice as if speaking to an unruly pupil.

  ‘We believe Mr and Mrs Jardine have been kidnapped. That the two bodies were placed as decoys.’

  Linklater glanced sideways as if imagining the scene. ‘Come on,’ he said, refusing to believe what he was being told. ‘Why? This doesn’t make any sense.’

  Lambert studied the man, analysing his reaction.

  ‘Do you think she’s alive?’ said Linklater.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. We’ve had no notification from a would-be kidnapper, no hostage note or similar.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Kidnapping for ransom is not that common. I’m afraid even nowadays people disappear for no apparent reason. Sometimes never to be seen again.’

  ‘I don’t believe this. Somehow, this is…’ Linklater hesitated. ‘This is worse.’

  Lambert nodded. ‘The not knowing is hard but there is still hope – and you can help.’

  Lambert told him about the suicide site, about the two victims found at Jardine’s house, and the Fireman.

  ‘You think the guy who befriended these people was the arsonist? Christ, did he murder them?’

  ‘We’re not sure about that. They were already dead before the fire. He could have assisted them with their suicide and used them as replacement bodies.’

  ‘What sort of sick individual would do that?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to ascertain. I’m sorry to ask you this, but did Caroline ever suffer from depression or ever mention feeling suicidal to you?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Caroline?’ Linklater chortled as if such a thought was unthinkable. ‘She got fed up with her job, was depressed sometimes in the general way we all get depressed about work and some of the things she had to endure, but there was nothing clinical about it. She wasn’t on medication and despite our differences and the arguments, I wouldn’t say her moods were particularly changeable. By the end, she just didn’t like me.’

  Lambert was surprised by the last admission, admired Linklater’s honesty. It highlighted a sense of vulnerability in the man. ‘There’s nothing you can think of, anything from her work perhaps.’

  Linklater stood up and walked to a small window at the corner of his office. ‘Sorry, this is all hard to take in. Until a few minutes ago I thought she was dead. I’m relieved that’s not the case but still. Caroline didn’t share much about her work. It was one of the reasons why…’ Linklater faltered, and Lambert thought of the secrets he’d kept from Sophie during their marriage.

  ‘Anyway, she didn’t tell me much. She was like two different people, if you can believe that. There was the policewoman, and there was Caroline. My Caroline. At least for a time.’

  ‘So there’s a chance she could have kept things like this from you?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Being involved with whatever this is, this suicide thing.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Linklater, shaking his head as if to convince himself. ‘She wasn’t like that. Are you married, Mr Lambert?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lambert, lacking the strength to explain his situation with Sophie.

  ‘You’ll know what it’s like, then. There are some things you just know. She wasn’t suicidal, I would have known it.’

  Lambert didn’t share his conviction. ‘You’ve been separated for some time now. How close have you been in the last few years?’

  Linklater returned to his seat. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. I forget sometimes, it feels like yesterday we were still together. To be honest, I’ve only seen her once or twice since the divorce. I heard about the child but I haven’t seen her. Could she be suffering from some form of depression? It’s possible I guess, but as I said, it wasn’t like the Caroline I knew.’

  Linklater played the hurt ex-husband very well, possibly too well. ‘What do you know about Marcus Jardine?’

  ‘Nothing. She sent me an email about their marriage. I deleted it. I’m not sure I would have remembered his name if your fellow officer hadn’t mentioned it to me.’

  Lambert watched the man’s hand rub his ring finger once more and knew he was lying.

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s of use, but I do remember one thing she told me when we were together,’ said Linklater, interlocking his hands as if he knew Lambert had spotted his deceit. ‘One of her colleagues, don’t remember the name, sorry. She committed suicide. Caroline was pretty cut up about it. I guess you know about that already, though?’

  Lambert stood up, not offering a reaction to the surprising news. ‘Thanks for your time, and apologies for interrupting your meeting,’ he said, placing his card on Linklater’s table. ‘If you think of anything else, please let me know.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Matilda had finished the full transcript by the time Lambert returned to the station. ‘The last time they’d talked was the night before they planned to meet. Central London of all places, at the Fireman’s suggestion. They planned to do it at his flat,’ she said.

  ‘Jesus, that’s convenient. I presume there’s no mention of an address?’

  ‘No, but we have arrival times for the trains so we’re searching CCTV as we speak.’

  ‘Let me know as soon as you get a hit. I need to check something.’

  Lambert rushed to his office and switched on his laptop. It was probably nothing, but Linklater’s revelation about Jardine’s former colleague had thrown him. He hadn’t read anything about it in her file and it was troubling to think he’d missed something so relevant. He spent thirty minutes scanning her file with no results so instead he called Tillman and asked him what he knew.

  ‘I heard about it at the time. Let me think. Alistair Newlyn. It was about four years ago. Didn’t take any notice of it then,’ said Tillman, who was back at head office.

  ‘You didn’t think it was relevant to mention?’

  ‘Christ, Lambert, he wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last.’

  ‘It would have been useful to have been notified.’

  ‘Why? It would be one hell of a leap if Newlyn’s suicide has any bearing on this.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me decide that, sir.’

  Tillman went silent. Lambert pictured him fuming on the other end of the receiver, his face reddening. ‘I’ll put Newlyn’s file on the System for you. Get back to me when you’ve tied up both cases,’ said Tillman, hanging up.

  Not for the first time in a case, Lambert had a sense something was just out of reach. Tillman was correct in stating Newlyn’s suicide was not the first or last time an officer took their own life, but whilst Lambert accepted coincidences in his line of work, he couldn’t help but feel the various strands of the case were moving in the same direction.

  The file appeared on the screen a few minutes later. Alistair Newlyn had committed suicide four years ago. DI Caroline Jardine and her colleague, DS Florence Colville, had discovered his body. Newlyn had hung himself from a high beam in the living room of his flat. From the autopsy report, Jardine and her col
league had arrived three hours too late.

  Lambert scratched the stubble on his face. He was missing something. Newlyn’s file stated he’d been investigating an organised crime ring at the time. Along with Jardine and Colville, he’d been part of a large interdepartmental team looking at people trafficking from certain Baltic states. It was the type of larger project Lambert had been used to during his time in The Group and latterly in the NCA – the investigation into the serial killer dubbed The Watcher, and the present case, being the exceptions.

  It was at times like this, midway through a case, where Lambert doubted he was suited to either type of investigation. He accepted such self-doubt as a necessary part of the job and convinced himself that things would soon unravel, and that he should trust his experience. He clicked on the third member of the team, DS Florence Colville. Colville was five years Jardine’s junior. Flicking through the people trafficking case, Lambert noted Colville’s successful participation in the arrest of four foreign nationals. After which, her file was virtually blank until the mention that she had officially left the force three and half years ago. He was about to study her file further when there was a knock on his office door.

  Matilda didn’t bother waiting for a reply before entering the office. ‘Sir, we’ve had a hit from the CCTV imaging at Waterloo station on the date where Turner and Berry were due to meet the Fireman,’ she said.

  ‘Show me,’ said Lambert, shutting off the System with one click and turning the laptop to Matilda.

  Matilda adjusted her glasses, a gesture which still seemed alien to Lambert, and tapped at the keyboard until Lambert’s screen mirrored her own. ‘Here,’ she said, pointing to a freeze frame of three people greeting one another. ‘Facial recognition software is starting to pay for itself. That’s Berry and Turner,’ she said, pointing to a frail looking woman wrapped in a coat two sizes too big, and a heavyset man with a greying beard.

  ‘And that’s the Fireman?’ said Lambert, pointing to the third of the trio.

  ‘Better than that,’ said Matilda, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘We have a name. Trevor Hodge.’

  ‘That was a quick,’ said Lambert, studying the image. In the freeze-framed image, Hodge held his hand out towards Turner in greeting. He looked as if he was holding his chest back as if pulling away from something, his face looking away from Turner.

  As if reading his thoughts, Matilda played the video. As Lambert had thought, the exchange was an awkward one. Hodge didn’t look comfortable either shaking hands with Turner, his hand limp in Turner’s grip, or exchanging kisses with Berry. ‘This man is not used to social situations. How did we discover his name?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘That’s the wonderful thing. He’s on our database. You’ll never guess what for?’ said Matilda, a triumphant smile spreading across her face.

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘Nope. Three separate cases of arson. And we have an address for him.’

  ‘What the hell are we doing here, then?’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘We already have back-up from the local CID outside the building,’ said Matilda, as she drove to Hodge’s last known address in Romford, Essex. ‘I’ve told them to maintain an eye on all exit points, but not approach.’

  ‘I’d expect nothing less,’ said Lambert, with a smile, opening the System on his laptop and the file on Hodge.

  Trevor Hodge was forty-five. His file picture showed someone who looked much older. In colour, Lambert made out the pronounced lines which cut into the man’s face, the tiredness in his eyes. Hodge was taken into care aged thirteen when his father died and family life became too much for his mother. As was often the case, this was when he turned to crime. He was cautioned on three separate occasions for theft, each time from large department stores. Then, aged seventeen, he was convicted for his first foray into arson and sentenced to a year in a young offenders’ institution.

  In Lambert’s opinion, and despite Hodge’s relative youth at the time, the sentence was lenient. Hodge had snuck into a local allotment site where he managed to burn down five huts used by the local gardeners. Fortunately, it being the middle of the night, no one had been hurt, which would explain to some extent the leniency of the sentence. The most interesting aspect of the file was that Hodge had waited at the allotments. He’d been sitting near the burning sheds watching the fire with an uncanny intensity, according to the arresting officer, and hadn’t put up a struggle whilst being arrested.

  Hodge had spent time with a therapist during his incarceration. The report suggested he had an unhealthy obsession with fire, which made Lambert snort.

  Hodge was briefly monitored on his release, and it wasn’t until age twenty-eight that he had struck again. This time he was caught before he’d managed to carry out his plan, which was a repeat of his first crime. Hodge had been arrested at a second set of allotments following a call from a local gardener who had been working late at his patch. On arrest, the team discovered a number of undetonated matchboxes which reflected Orr’s work.

  Lambert shared the information with Matilda. ‘I did a search on this on the System,’ he said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Arson cases which matched Orr’s MO – but this case was not mentioned.’

  ‘Is Orr mentioned in the report?’ asked Matilda, who was weaving the squad car expertly through the lunchtime traffic.

  Lambert scanned the report. ‘Doesn’t look like it. You would think someone would have made a link.’

  ‘Would you?’ said Matilda.

  Lambert sighed, conceding there was no real reason someone would have made such a leap.

  ‘What was the third case?’ asked Matilda, narrowly missing the back of a white van as she manoeuvred through the lanes.

  ‘He set a fire at a campsite which got somewhat out of hand. He’d set it near a scattering of trees and, unsurprisingly, it spread. He only received a deferred sentence.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Eight years ago,’ said Lambert, shutting his laptop. ‘It’s not these cases we need to be concerned with. It’s the ones we don’t know about.’

  ‘He sounds a bit sloppy,’ said Matilda, blasting her horn and flashing her headlights at a car in front of her.

  ‘I’m not so sure. He may have got away in the first instance if he hadn’t hung around to admire his handiwork. Even the second time sounded like bad luck.’

  ‘And his forest fire?’ said Matilda, turning to face Lambert.

  ‘Jesus, keep your eyes on the road, Kennedy,’ said Lambert, prompting laughter from Matilda. ‘Who knows. Cry for help maybe?’

  ‘He doesn’t fit the profile I had in my mind for the Jardine job. He sounds like a fire obsessive, but switching bodies like that?’

  Lambert agreed but they didn’t know enough about Hodge at the moment to dismiss him so easily.

  Matilda switched off the lights as they approached the house. Lambert spotted the two squad cars in the street and instructed Matilda to park next to the nearest one. As they left the car, the driver of the patrol car did the same. ‘DCI Lambert, DS Kennedy,’ said Lambert.

  ‘DS Belton,’ said the officer.

  Lambert shook hands with the man, who had a vice-like grip. Belton obviously worked out. Even beneath his three-quarter-length coat, Lambert could see the shape of his muscled torso.

  ‘We have two officers to the rear of the property,’ said Belton. ‘This is to do with that missing officer, isn’t it? I’ll help in any way I can. Do you want me to accompany you?’

  In all the drama of discovering Hodge, it was easy to forget Caroline Jardine was missing, that her and her husband could be in a perilous situation somewhere; that they could even be in the property in front of them. ‘No. Just keep an eye on the front door,’ said Lambert, nodding to Matilda for her to follow.

  Their desired property was the central one of seven terraced bungalows. The curtains on the two front windows were pulled shut, e
ach set a fading shade of brown. Chipped paint flaked on the windowsills and door panels giving the place the look of somewhere either not cared for or derelict. Lambert nodded as Matilda reached for the doorbell which emitted no sound. Lambert rapped his knuckles against the battered paintwork, pressing his ear to the door when no one answered. He peered into the downstairs window but the drawn curtains obstructed his view. He knocked on the window a few times but if anyone was in they weren’t coming to the door.

  ‘No sign of movement since you arrived?’ Lambert asked Belton, who stood attentively on the pavement.

  ‘No, sir.’

  Lambert rubbed his chin and made a decision. ‘Tell your team we’re going in,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lambert pushed the door a few times, confirming it was secured only by the Yale lock. ‘You doing the honours?’ he said to Matilda, who looked down at her Converse trainers. ‘You do dress casual, Kennedy, you know that?’

  Matilda shrugged. ‘Maybe DS Belton has an enforcer.’

  ‘You questioning my ability to get this door open, Sergeant?’

  ‘Go on then,’ said Matilda.

  Lambert considered ramming the door with his shoulder but decided injury was less likely to occur if he used his feet. His first kick managed to shatter the side panel so he aimed his second kick a bit higher. This was enough to shatter the lock. Lambert barged the door open and was immediately hit by a wave of putrid air. ‘Police,’ he shouted.

  ‘Police, is anybody in the building?’ he repeated, breathing through his mouth as he made his way down the confines of a narrow hallway.

  Behind him, Matilda flicked a light switch but they were left in semi-darkness. Lambert tried a doorway to his left, sending out a warning before opening the door which led to a self-contained kitchen area. Lambert winced, discovering the source of the smell which overran the flat. The kitchen was being used partly as a makeshift garbage dump, and partly as a toilet. Bin bags were strewn across the tattered linoleum flooring, ripped and overflowing with moulded food. The top of one of the bags appeared to be moving. Lambert leant forward to be rewarded by the sight of hundreds of maggots feasting on the contents. ‘Open a window, Kennedy,’ he said, retreating to the hallway.