by Matt Brolly
‘Where’s somewhere safe?’ said Lambert.
‘Somewhere public,’ answered Colville.
‘Follow me,’ said Lambert, leading the woman to a bar on the High Street.
Colville took a seat at the back of the shop facing the entrance as Lambert bought them some soft drinks. As he returned, he noticed Colville sat with the same strange intensity she’d displayed standing outside his flat. She sat upright, stiff backed, staring ahead.
‘What have you got to tell me?’ said Lambert.
‘What can you tell me, sir? I imagine you have some idea what’s going on now?’ she said, ignoring the drink placed before.
Lambert hadn’t asked for her ID as he was sure she wasn’t carrying any, but he had checked her file on the System before he’d left, and had verified her identity with a picture taken five years ago. She hadn’t changed much in that time, physically at least. But the way she held herself suggested something had changed within.
‘I’m not here to answer questions,’ said Lambert. ‘What the hell is this all about?’
Colville shifted in her seat.
‘I was warned you’d be like this,’ she said.
Lambert didn’t respond. He sipped his sparkling water, refusing to be budged. ‘What do you have to tell me?’
Colville barely reacted. ‘Stop me if you know any of this,’ she said.
Lambert nodded his head slightly, agreeing to nothing.
‘You must be aware of Alistair Newlyn’s suicide,’ said Colville. ‘You’re probably aware Alistair was a former colleague of mine and Caroline Jardine’s?’
Lambert didn’t answer.
‘Anyway, at the time of his suicide, we were investigating an organised crime group. Only, it was as if this group didn’t exist. They were part urban legend. We believed they were responsible for a number of disappearances in the Greater London area. They were known as the Manor but we were never sure if that was the name of the group or a clue to their location. We heard the word only in dispatches.’
Lambert felt a surge of adrenaline at the mention of the Manor. ‘How do you mean, ‘dispatches’?’
‘It was a name which kept cropping up in interviews and witness reports. We could never find anything concrete. No one would ever talk. Then, one day, we had a breakthrough. Or at least Alistair did. Sir, what did Trevor Hodge say to you before he died?’
‘I’m here to listen to you,’ said Lambert.
Colville frowned and continued.
‘Alistair called me and Caroline to meet at his flat. He told us about an informant who knew about the Manor.’
‘And that was the day you found him?’ said Lambert.
‘Yes.’
‘What information did you get from him before you found him at the flat?’
‘He gave us two names. One was Gerry Twain, a suspected paedophile who’d recently disappeared.’
‘And the other?’ he asked, thinking he already knew.
‘That was the thing. The other name was a police officer. The officer was Chief Superintendent Sinnott.’
Greene’s superior, the man she suspected had prevented her further exploration of Waverley Manor. Lambert paused, sipping the water, trying to analyse what he’d been told.
‘He didn’t give you the informant’s name?’
‘Not over the phone, no,’ said Colville.
‘OK, so let’s backtrack. He mentions Sinnott on the phone and next thing he’s committed suicide?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was four years ago?’
‘Yes’
‘So, you supposedly left the force a few months later but you moved to Anti-Corruption?’
‘Correct, DCI Lambert.’
‘And Sinnott’s under investigation?’
‘Following Newlyn’s suicide we discovered his files, laptop and phone had all been wiped. We could find absolutely nothing to link him to Sinnott and, of course, we had no name for an informant.’
‘So, what have you been doing for the last four years?’
‘I’ve been trying to infiltrate the Manor.’
‘And how’s that working out for you?’ said Lambert.
‘Slow progress, as you can imagine.’ She was obviously not prepared to tell him any more at that stage.
‘Did Caroline know about you and your activities?’
‘No, sir. She thinks I left. After Alistair’s death they took her off the case. In fact, the case was closed. There was no legitimate reason to keep it running – that’s when I went to Anti-Corruption. However, sir, there’s one thing you should know. One thing I’m sure no one’s told you.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Lambert
‘Caroline never stopped working on the case.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s nothing official but I know she’s been investigating the Manor. She’s been doing so covertly but she’s left footprints.’
Lambert sat back. Things were starting to make some sort of sense, though the knowledge wasn’t benefiting him at the moment. ‘So following her kidnapping, you took an overview of my case?’
‘Yes, sir. It followed close on the heels of DI Greene’s case. I believe she told you that Sinnott is her department head. We’re convinced he pulled Greene’s investigation into Waverley Manor.’
‘What else do you have on Sinnott?’ he asked.
‘Not enough. Alistair’s suicide. Waverley Manor. And now we have Hodge’s dying words.’
‘He didn’t mention Sinnott,’ said Lambert.
‘What did he say? DI Greene didn’t share it with me.’
‘His last words were “the Manor,”’ said Lambert. ‘I think it’s about time we took a closer look at that place.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Lambert arranged to meet with Colville and Greene back at his flat in two hours. He requested that Duggan not be involved for the time being though he was sure Colville would inform him.
He called Matilda and arranged to meet her beforehand. She appeared within the hour and he told her about Greene and Colville.
‘So we’re working for AC now?’ she said.
‘We’re cooperating with them. It’s our only option at this point.’
‘Why don’t you make it official? Tell Glenn you’re going to this Waverley Manor. We could take a full team there. There’s nothing Sinnott, or anyone else, can do about it.’
‘Possibly. But it would mean notifying those involved. We don’t know if the Jardines will be there. Seems unlikely to me. If Hodge had somehow betrayed his organisation then he wouldn’t have taken Caroline to their main location. So, the plan is we’ll do a reccy of the place. You and I will go in with DI Greene. Colville will stay on point at the car.’
‘Why don’t we just tell Glenn?’ repeated Matilda.
Lambert had known Tillman a decade or so longer than Matilda. He understood she was questioning his loyalty and he didn’t have a ready answer for her.
‘At the moment, the fewer people who know the better,’ he said, sensing the inadequacy of his words.
Thirty minutes later, Colville and Greene arrived. The four of them drank tea in Lambert’s living quarters. Lambert glanced around him as they drank, wincing at the chaotic nature of the room, the mess he’d somehow created with a minimal amount of furniture.
‘Drink up, it’s getting late,’ said Lambert.
He outlined the plan he’d shared with Matilda to the rest of the team.
‘Greene, I want you to lead Kennedy and me to the site where you discovered the body. Colville, you’ll be on lookout. Let’s go.’
Outside, they got into Lambert’s car and set off in silence punctuated only by the sound of the engine and the tyres on the tarmac. Lambert stopped at a lockout he used and filled the boot of the car with a set of portable floodlights, and a bag filled to the brim with torches and various tools he stuffed in on the off chance.
Back on the road, Lambert glanced at Colville in the rear-view mirro
r. ‘How long did you work with Caroline for?’ he asked the woman.
‘About two years.’
‘You got on well together?’
‘Very well. We were a very secure trio, along with Alistair. Though Caroline was always the leading light.’
‘In what way?’ said Lambert.
‘She had that burning ambition. You see it in certain officers. I’m sure you’re aware of that.’
Lambert nodded to himself and wondered if that drive and ambition were keeping Caroline alive at the moment.
Colville still had that unusual intensity to her. Even in the relative darkness of the car he sensed her rigidity, the straightness of her spine as she sat almost to attention as he spoke to her. He wondered if she’d always been like that or if the incident with her former colleague had brought a new tension into her life, one which manifested itself physically.
He pulled off the main road an hour later, into a side lane guarded by an avenue of trees. As the car progressed, the road became more and more difficult to manoeuvre until eventually it was little more than a dirt track seemingly leading to nowhere. He switched on his hazard lights and brought the car to a stop. The temperature had plummeted a few degrees since they’d left. It was approaching midnight and Lambert put on a set of heavy-duty gloves, buttoning his coat tight against his neck.
‘So this is Waverley Manor?’ he said to DI Greene.
‘You should be so lucky,’ said Greene, with a high lilt to her voice Lambert had previously not noticed.
‘There’s still a good mile trek left. Through there,’ she said, pointing a torch at a looming oak tree, magnificent and haunting.
‘Are you sure you know the way?’ said Lambert.
Greene shrugged. ‘I’ve been here in the dark once before. We’ll need the floodlights but I’m pretty confident we can find our way. To be fair, it’s only the first quarter of a mile that’s tricky, then the place opens up somewhat till you reach the Manor.’
‘Sounds great. As agreed,’ said Lambert. ‘DI Greene, you’re going to lead the way. Kennedy, you’re with me, and DS Colville will stay on point.’
They retrieved the gear Lambert had collected from the boot of the car and headed into the woods. They made slow progress at first, Lambert and Matilda lighting the path with their high-definition torches.
The peacefulness of the area was impossible to ignore. Although there were many green areas surrounding the neighbourhood where Lambert lived he never felt truly able to escape the bustle of city life. When time allowed he’d occasionally take a walk in Beckenham Park Woods but even there he was reminded of the reality of the world just beyond the trees, by the occasional sound of traffic or the yell of a golfer shouting ‘fore’ from the soon-to-be-defunct golf course. No such sounds bothered them here. Maybe it was just the time of night, the clock approaching midnight, but as Lambert made his way through the brambles and low-hanging branches he felt a sense of isolation. The only sounds he could hear were the noises within his confined space: his own footsteps and those of his colleagues, and the scurrying wildlife just out of sight.
True to Greene’s word, they soon approached the clearing. In the darkness it looked like an absence, a vast piece of land devoid of trees that looked out of place in the middle of the forest.
‘Is this man-made?’ Lambert asked Greene, shining his torch into the clearing.
‘I don’t think so. It’s surrounded by trees on all sides. It must be a natural phenomenon.’
‘Where’s Waverley Manor from here?’ asked Matilda, who was busy pointing her torch in all directions as if they were being followed.
‘Across the clearing and then one last trek,’ said Greene.
The clearing was not as flat and welcoming as Lambert had expected. More than once he lost his footing on uneven ground. Even in this vast openness the same lingering sense of isolation overtook him. Was Caroline waiting for them somewhere beyond the trees in the distance? He wondered if somehow the sound of their movement could carry in the stillness of the night.
The second trek through the woods was harder than the first.
‘There is an actual building through here, Greene?’ he said.
‘Of sorts,’ said Greene, slowing her pace as the trees encroached on both sides. ‘It’s the ruins of a building. The Manor is a misnomer. It’s nothing more than some remnants of a small brick house. We couldn’t find records of it anywhere. If it hadn’t been for our informant we’d have never known it existed.’
‘Here. Through here,’ she said, turning her shoulder and pushing through the foliage.
Lambert followed a couple of steps behind Matilda until, for the second time that night, they broke through into a clearing, this one infinitely smaller than the once preceding it.
‘There,’ said Greene, shining a light on the ruins of an ancient building through which a solitary tree grew, its branches reaching out for the multitude of gaps in the structure.
‘Welcome to Waverley Manor.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Greene had been correct about the Manor: it didn’t deserve the title.
They set up the floodlights illuminating the brittle remains of the brick building, the lights catching on the vines which interweaved through the structure. Lambert tried to stay positive but it felt as if they’d reached a dead end.
‘Here’s where we found Smith,’ said Greene, showing them to a cordoned-off area fifty or so metres from the main site.
‘Did you get much further in your search before it was called off?’ asked Lambert.
‘A couple of hours at most. We searched outwards from his grave but didn’t discover anything before I was told to call it a day.’
They began the search nearer to the crumbling building itself. Lambert took the interior of the building, with its flooring of mud and foliage, whilst Matilda and Greene searched the perimeter.
Lambert shone his torch on the bricks of the Manor, hoping for the slightest indication they were in the right place. He pulled at the loose brickwork, revealing an abandoned bird’s nest so brittle it fell away in his hands. As he scrambled around on his hands and feet, searching for God only knew what, he wondered what he was doing in this place. He chopped away at some dense vines with a small pair of shears, rubbing his hands against the brickwork as if searching for an opening.
Once again, negative thoughts overcame him. Experience told him searching a place like this would take days and conducting the search the wrong side of midnight with a team of three was not the way to go about it. He was standing gazing out from the interior of the building, moving his torch in a haphazard manner creating zigzags in the line of trees before him, when he sensed movement to his left. He shone his torch at some rustling leaves just in time to see the figure of a small mouse disappear into the undergrowth next to the far side of the wall.
Lambert followed the rodent, making his own rustling noise as he took large steps across the frozen ground. He squatted down, clipping away at the brambles which surrounded the wall. The mouse had disappeared but Lambert felt a different movement as he placed his hand into the vines. He pulled and pulled, brushing spiders and other insects off him, until enough of the vegetation came away that he could see the walls. Like the rest of the building the brown-red bricks had seen better times.
Lambert peered closer, shining his torch onto the lines of cement holding the bricks in place, as if the ancient masonry could relate something to him. Closer to the ground he noticed a small opening into which the mouse had presumably scurried. He clawed at it with his hands, pulling away chunks of frozen mud until he’d created an opening big enough to fit his hand through. He moved his hand through with trepidation, tentatively touching the other side only to be disappointed with what he found: more frozen mud.
‘What are you doing?’ said a voice from behind him.
Keeping his hand in place, he turned his neck back and snarled at Matilda. ‘I’m not actually sure,’ he said.
She a
pproached further, shining her torch into the gap where his hand lay as if this was somehow of help. ‘A secret passage?’ she said, gently mocking him.
‘Who knows,’ he said, shoving his arm in further until his fingers made contact with something solid.
‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘I think I’ve found something.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Matilda, not believing a word of it.
Lambert drummed his fingers on the cold ground and shivered as something crawled across the back of his hand. He extended his index finger till he made contact again.
‘Seriously,’ he said, stretching his arm further into the hole. He managed to take hold of the object which was smooth and cold like metal. He flicked his finger until the object lifted and he was able to lock his finger around it.
‘There’s something here, some sort of lock or handle. Go round the other side and let me know what you can see.’
Matilda called Greene and together they made their way around the other side of the wall.
‘See anything?’ shouted Lambert a few minutes later.
Matilda returned and tapped him on the shoulder. At the same second, he felt something scamper over the back of his hand.
‘We’re going to be a while,’ she said. ‘The area behind is covered in brambles. Are you OK to hold on?’
‘I’m not going anywhere, but I’d be grateful if you’d hurry up. I’m being eaten alive.’
Lambert lay on the damp ground and waited for his colleagues to cut through. He tried not to think of the various beings which seemed to be feasting on him as he waited.
Eventually, he felt a touch on his hand. ‘We’re through, sir,’ said Matilda. ‘I’ve got a hold of the ring-pull. You can let go and come back round this side.’
Lambert dragged his hand out, glad to see flesh still on his bones. He pushed himself up from the floor with a grunt of effort, his left trouser leg caked in mud.
Outside the house, on the other side of the wall, Matilda was crouched over, her hand on a metal object.
‘What is it?’ said Lambert.
‘It looks like some kind of opening. A manhole cover if I’m not mistaken,’ she said.
