Dead Lucky

by Matt Brolly

  ‘And what did you notice about what he was wearing?’

  ‘That was the thing,’ said Levinson, a sparkle igniting her eyes. ‘I’m a bit of a shoe snob and I’d noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes from Barker and Co. My husband likes their shoes. And he was wearing beautifully tailored trousers. Nothing unusual about that but he was wearing a hoodie over his shirt. This beaten old black thing and he had the hood up. It just didn’t look right to me.’

  ‘Did you tell any of the staff?’

  ‘No, I didn’t want to worry them unduly. You get a lot of strange folk coming in and out of here. They probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelid anyway.’

  ‘Could you give me more of a description? Did you get a good look at his face?’

  ‘Only the once. He might have thought no one was looking but I peeked at him through the blinds in my office. He took his hood down for a moment and I saw him then. He was a lot older than I’d imagined, though he was quite good looking. He had a good head of hair, silvery grey. I’m afraid I must have touched the blinds as he glanced up at the window and put the hoodie back on. He hasn’t appeared since.’

  Matilda pulled her phone from her trouser pocket. ‘Just bear with me a second, Sandra,’ she said, searching on Google. She found the image she was looking for and handed the phone to Levinson.

  ‘Yes, that’s him. How did you know?’

  Matilda sighed. ‘It’s a long story but thank you very much, that information could come in handy. She saved the image and texted it to Lambert. Underneath, she typed. ‘We need to interview Charles Robinson again.’

  Chapter 12

  It had taken him fifteen minutes to get through the first gate. Now Lambert stood waiting outside the second. His jacket was damp beneath his suit jacket, the early morning sun already blistering hot.

  ‘Who did you say you were again?’ said the voice on the intercom.

  He knew he was being mocked but played along anyway. There was sure to be more than one exit to the house and if he wasn’t polite, he knew Curtis Blake would suddenly be unavailable. ‘DCI Michael Lambert. I have an appointment with Mr Blake.’

  ‘Please wait,’ said the intercom voice.

  Lambert waited another ten minutes before the front door opened. A slim muscular man dressed in a black suit walked down the stone pathway towards him, flanked on either side by two men almost twice his size wearing cheaper versions of the same suit. The man stopped, took off a pair of expensive looking sunglasses and assessed him with a stern glare. ‘Will Atkinson, Mr Blake’s head of security. May I see some ID, Mr Lambert,’ he said, his voice strong and authoritative.

  Lambert handed him his warrant card.

  Atkinson looked harder than necessary. He was clearly ex-military. He nodded to one of his colleagues, and the steel gate opened.

  ‘Quite the security set-up you have,’ said Lambert.

  Atkinson nodded. ‘It’s important to be safe,’ he said.

  Lambert held his arms out as one of the henchmen checked him for weapons.

  ‘Thank you, please follow me,’ said Atkinson.

  The house, a detached property in Hampstead, would be worth millions. Blake owned a number of legitimate businesses, mainly property related, in the capital. It was feasible that he would make some enemies in such a line of work, but the level of security in the house was disproportionately high. The front door was made of steel. Atkinson had to punch in a six-digit pin to gain entry. Both the guards turned away as he entered the code, and Lambert was instructed to do the same. The door led to another gated area. Atkinson unlocked three locks to enter the main area of the house, leaving one of the guards to monitor the front door.

  ‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Lambert, following Atkinson into a vast dining room where a man sat drinking coffee, talking on a mobile phone. The man looked up and pointed to a chair.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Atkinson.

  Lambert sat and waited for Curtis Blake to finish his call. The man was in his late fifties but looked older, his leathered face crisscrossed with deep grooves. He was wearing a white linen suit, a crisp shirt with the top button pushed into the loose flesh of his neck. He said something into the phone, before placing it on the dining table. ‘DCI Lambert,’ he said, more to himself than directly at Lambert. Leaning back in his chair, he continued. ‘Yes, DCI Lambert. I know all about you. How is Glenn Tillman?’

  Lambert had run through Blake’s file on The System last night and knew that Tillman had investigated him a number of times over the years with no success.

  ‘You’ll have to ask him yourself. I am here on another issue.’

  Blake lifted his coffee cup. ‘Where are my manners? Can I get you something? Water, perhaps? You look like you ran here.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Lambert told him about Moira Sackville.

  Blake drank his coffee, lost in contemplation. ‘Poor Eustace. I never had the pleasure of meeting his wife.’

  ‘You knew Eustace well.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Eustace Sackville, reporter extraordinaire. That’s why you wanted to speak to me?’

  ‘I understand you and Eustace have a history?’

  A smirk crossed Blake’s lips but lent no humour to his face. ‘I would hardly call it that.’

  ‘You know he was investigating you?’

  ‘You must have spoken to him already. Some preposterous idea he had. He still thinks I’m twenty, thinks I’m some sort of petty criminal. He even had the temerity to call me.’

  ‘I don’t think he believes you’re a petty criminal,’ said Lambert, looking around at the ostentatious decorations of the dining room.

  Blake looked at his mobile. ‘My point exactly. This has been hard won. I work fifteen, sixteen hours a day. I’m never off this bloody thing.’

  ‘I understand that Eustace was looking at some competing groups?’

  The smirk had disappeared from Blake’s face. ‘Some perceived competition. I told Sackville then, and I’m telling you now, that I have nothing to fear from Russians, Albanians, Kosovans, or whoever is the new flavour of the month. I have nothing to do with them, and they have nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Why all the security?’

  Blake shook his head as if he was talking to an imbecile. ‘You don’t become successful in this world without making enemies, Lambert, you must know that. This is all for precaution.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘I know why you want to speak to me, Lambert. Let me see, you think Moira Sackville was killed, what, as a warning?’

  Lambert sat stony-faced.

  ‘No, not a warning. Why bother going to such lengths, may as well have bumped him off as well? You think Eustace was being punished for something. Something he knew, or something he did. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I think you are barking up the wrong tree, as it were. At least, if it’s concerning me. Why would I care about what that journalist was up to? Maybe he pissed off the wrong people somewhere. But really, it’s all a bit, well, messy.’

  ‘And it has nothing to do with you, I presume?’

  Blake pursed his lips, his face cracking into a patchwork of lines like an uncharted map. ‘Of course not. Now if you don’t mind, Atkinson here will show you out. Please pass on my regards to your superior.’

  Lambert felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to face Atkinson, who had crept up on him.

  He allowed the head of security to escort him out. He couldn’t argue with Blake’s logic and he’d summed it up very well. The case was messy. Finding a motive was proving illusive and it was a possibility that the attack was a one-off, that there was no rhyme or reason, and that unless the killer struck again they would never find out who he was.

  Lambert headed for the train station, thinking that the time may have come to start using a pool car. He’d avoided travelling by car as much as possible since the car accident which had taken his daughter but it was becoming unavoidable. Travelling by public transport may give him time to
think but it also ate away at his time. As long as he didn’t drive late at night, he was sure he would be okay.

  He checked his phone. Kennedy had called and left a text message. It was something about Moira Sackville’s ex-lover, the barrister Charles Robinson. Lambert was about to call her back when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  It was a firm tap, more a grab, and Lambert immediately went on the defensive. He turned in one swift moment, at the same time stepping back a few steps to avoid any contact from a would-be attacker.

  ‘Steady there,’ said the man who’d tapped his shoulder, lifting his hands in defence.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said Lambert, still poised for attack.

  The man reached into the inside pocket of his threadbare jacket and showed Lambert a warrant card. ‘DS Harrogate. We need to talk.’

  Chapter 13

  Harrogate led him to a small bar off the high street. The walls were decorated with television screens of various sizes showing different sports. The air conditioning was working full blast and was a welcome distraction from the outside heat. Harrogate ordered a pint of Guinness and a double vodka. ‘Drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Water,’ said Lambert.

  They took a seat in a small booth at one corner of the bar, Lambert facing the bar’s exit. Harrogate downed the vodka in one gulp and took a large swig of the Guinness. He wiped a line of white foam from his top lip, and took a second drink. His face was pitted with a few days’ growth of stubble, his eyes tired-looking and bloodshot.

  ‘What were you doing at Blake’s place?’ he asked.

  Lambert tried not to bristle at the man’s opening question. ‘How do you know I was at the Blake residence, and what business is it of yours, Sergeant?’

  Harrogate laughed, a deep rasping noise escaping his lips. ‘Let’s not be formal, Lambert. I know you were there because I’ve been working on Blake for the last five years and you may have just fucked up all that work.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything on his file.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ Blake downed the rest of the Guinness and pointed to the barman for a refill.

  ‘If you’re running some sort of covert operation then I apologise, but how could I possibly know? Now if you can get over yourself, we can perhaps swap information.’

  The barman returned and Harrogate wordlessly gave him a ten pound note. ‘Why were you there?’

  Lambert relented and told him about Sackville.

  ‘I’m surprised you got to see him,’ said Harrogate.

  ‘I had to clear security before I was granted an audience. Then he was as evasive as possible.’

  ‘It sounds like a very tentative link between Blake and Sackville.’

  ‘Pretty much what Blake said.’

  ‘You treating it as a dead end?’ Harrogate was halfway through the second pint, though the alcohol didn’t seem to be having any notable effect. He had a similar body shape to Tillman, though where Tillman was muscle, Harrogate was flab.

  ‘We’ll have to see what Sackville comes back with, but I can’t see Blake putting himself in such a position. So what about you?’

  ‘Just trying to pull away the facade of the legitimate businessman. He protects himself through lines of red tape and lawyers. Naturally, he has a pyramid of lackeys doing all the dirty work for him.’

  ‘Drugs?’ asked Lambert, thinking about the case he’d been working on before Sackville.

  ‘Probably, but we’re looking at something else – people trafficking. We think his organisation has been working in line with an East European gang, Croatians, setting up houses throughout the city.’

  ‘Why would they use Blake, they normally don’t work with outsiders?’ Lambert thought about the two bodyguards who had flanked Blake’s head of security, Atkinson. He wondered if they’d been East European.

  ‘Contacts. This is more than your normal street stuff. High money, all tastes… if you get my meaning.’

  Lambert knew all too well. ‘Have you spoken to Sackville before?’

  Harrogate nodded. ‘You know they go way back, don’t you? Since he was a jobbing journo. I’d go so far as to say they were friends, if you can actually be friends with someone like Blake.’

  Lambert stood, hiding his surprise about the last piece of information. ‘I’ll share any relevant information.’

  Harrogate nodded, noncommittally, and looked over at the barman for a refill.

  Back at the office Lambert met up with Kennedy. She explained what the librarian had told her. ‘So Mr Robinson has been telling us lies?’

  ‘Looks like it. Shall we get him in?’

  ‘No, let’s hold off. Try to find out some more about him. What cases he’s been working on, who he’s represented in the past. We need to find out some more personal details as well. Speak to his head clerk, Latchford. I want to know if he was seeing anyone else. What he knows about Moira.’

  ‘I was thinking we should look into the death of his wife?’ said Kennedy.

  Lambert thought it was a dead end but nodded assent anyway. ‘Where are you on the Whitfield case?’

  ‘I’m still trying to track down Noel Whitfield. Devlin has been to his last known address. We’ve arranged to meet the victim of the attack later today.’

  Lambert updated her on Blake, and his meeting with DS Harrogate.

  ‘We’re to leave Blake alone then?’ asked Kennedy.

  Lambert frowned. ‘I’ll try not to ruin their investigation, but I’m not finished with Blake yet. Nor Eustace Sackville. There’s something the pair of them are holding back. It seems they go way back. Someone’s withholding information from me and I’m going to find out who and why.’

  Tillman appeared as they were finishing. Lambert noticed Kennedy tensing at the arrival of their superior. ‘Status report?’

  Tillman’s bulk was covered in a shirt at least a size too small for him. Lambert gave Tillman a brief status report, omitting his meeting with Harrogate, Kennedy remaining quiet throughout.

  ‘So we’re not focusing our energies in any one direction?’ said Tillman, shaking his head.

  ‘Too many loose ends at present.’

  ‘I agree with you, Lambert. Get on it. People are expecting great things from you. In turn, that means they are relying on me. Kennedy, a word,’ he said, strolling back to his office.

  Lambert smiled to himself. He’d seen Tillman storm off so many times over the years that the sight of it had lost all its power. The smile faded as he remembered it was the second time in so many days that Kennedy had been summoned into his office without Lambert’s presence. It wasn’t unheard of, but it annoyed him that he wasn’t privy to whatever they had to discuss. He tried not to dwell on the possibility that Tillman was asking for feedback about Lambert’s performance. It would be typical Tillman behaviour. Deliberately making it evident he was speaking to Kennedy. Putting doubts into Lambert’s head, and not trying to hide the fact.

  He’d agreed earlier to meet Sophie for lunch near their house in Beckenham and still had forty minutes before he had to leave. He opened The System and began searching on Curtis Blake and his team. Investigations into Blake stretched back over thirty years with little success. If he’d been successfully linked with a quarter of the crimes attributed to him then he would have spent the whole of his life inside. Everything was in his file: extortion, armed robbery, manslaughter, murder, even child abduction. Where the police had been successful in closing cases, it was always one of Blake’s extended team which took the fall. Lambert thought back to what Harrogate had told him about the people trafficking and Blake working alongside the Croatians setting up brothels within the city. Although it couldn’t be proved, it seemed this had always been a part of Blake’s empire. A number of investigations over the years had included prostitution rings, often with minors.

  Lambert spent his remaining time looking into the various members of Blake’s team. He flicked through a list of Blake’s known alliances; each had a hyperlink deta
iling personal histories. Everyone, from Blake’s accountant to his chef, was listed. Lambert made a tentative search of Blake’s security team. Harrogate had made a detailed report on each member – from Will Atkinson, the head of security, through to a number of bodyguards occasionally used by Blake. Lambert printed off a number of files before informing Devlin that he was heading out.

  Sophie was sitting outside a café just down the road from Beckenham Junction. She looked deathly pale, a large hat shading her from the sun. Lambert kissed her on the cheek, and sat down, taking a peek at the sleeping baby in the buggy next to her. Despite himself, he felt his heart racing.

  ‘She’s keeping you up?’

  ‘How can you tell? Are you saying I’m not looking at my best?’ Sophie glared at him hard, her face eventually softening as he realised she was teasing.

  ‘I remember this phase,’ said Lambert, pushing his luck. ‘Are you on your own at the house?’ he said, surprised by the jealous thought that the baby’s father would be staying over.

  ‘Mum’s there now. She’s driving me crazy, though she did offer to look after Jane.’

  ‘Everything is okay, though?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie, with a hint of impatience. ‘She’s sleeping well, and feeding is not a problem so I can’t complain.’

  ‘Is that your mother or the baby?’ he said, trying to make her smile.

  Sophie frowned. ‘Shall we order?’

  They ate grilled fish in the sunshine. Sophie relaxed, and for a brief time Lambert forgot about the Sackville case. He even managed to forget that the tiny, sleeping figure in the buggy was not his. It felt right – enjoying the heat, talking to the woman who was still his wife.

  ‘So what about you?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Sophie looked upwards and sighed. ‘I expected nothing else. I know this must be weird for you. I’m sure it’s upsetting. I’ve tried to put myself in your position but it’s impossible. I’m struggling with it myself. Jeremy is offering to help but he’s not going to be part of my life, although he will need to be part of Jane’s. I don’t know what to do, Michael. I never planned to be a single mum, and every time I look at Jane I think of Chloe, and…’ She started to cry and forced herself to stop, wiping her hand across her eyes in defiance. ‘Tell me how you’re feeling, Michael.’