Dead Lucky

by Matt Brolly

  ‘Did you check his work history?’ asked Kennedy.

  ‘Naturally. We contacted his former colleagues in the Met, though most are no longer with us.’ Elwin picked up the case file she’d brought with her. She licked her index figure and flicked through her notes. ‘We spoke to Doug Lindsay who was a DC at the time Lennox was working. He left the force twenty-five years ago but had a strong recollection about our man. Not fond memories. Seems Mr Lennox was a bit of a bully, and probably not the straightest of officers.’

  ‘Anything significant?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Suggestions of backhanders, turning a blind eye, that sort of a thing. Nothing more significant than that. At least not according to Mr Lindsay. He didn’t have much good to say for the man.’

  ‘You think there was a possible revenge motive?’ asked Kennedy.

  Elwin’s eyes widened. She was clearly put out by the question. ‘What do you think, Sergeant? There was nothing. No DNA, no fingerprints, just a bloody suicide with no weapon for the death. We looked at revenge. We started local, more recent, and spread our net, but it was like picking the proverbial needle from a haystack. Where would you begin?’

  Lambert knew the predicament all too well. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’

  ‘You can have this,’ said Elwin, handing him the file. ‘You think this was your man?’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘You’ll keep me informed?’ Elwin still had hold of the file.

  Lambert understood the words. ‘Yes. Your help will be mentioned in the report,’ he said.

  Chapter 32

  Back at the station, Lambert summoned everyone to the incident room, updating them on Lennox and making it the number one priority.

  Even Tillman made the pilgrimage from his office. He stood at the rear of the room, arms folded, as Lambert wrote three names onto the whiteboard. Sackville, Dempsey, Lennox. ‘The working theory is that all three are linked. I believe Lennox was the killer’s first victim. The job was less neat than with the others,’ he said, displaying the pictures of Lennox’s fatal wound on the screen. ‘We need to work out the link between these three. These are not random victims.’

  ‘What about Curtis Blake?’ asked Devlin, who’d grown in Lambert’s estimation as the week had progressed.

  ‘Cross-check everything with him in particular, since Sackville and Dempsey haven’t been able to make any link explicit.’

  He allocated roles for everyone but saved most of the work for himself. He had to speak to both Sackville and Dempsey again. He had a nagging feeling that one, or both of them, was hiding something from him. It was intangible at the moment. Neither had any obvious reason for lying to him, but still it troubled him.

  Lambert dismissed everyone and returned to his desk. He hadn’t heard from the Watcher since the newspaper article had been released. He tried not to read too much into it and refused to dwell on the menace from the killer.

  He was about to call for Kennedy when he noticed her enter Tillman’s office. He’d grown to trust her over the duration of the case. It was still possible that Tillman had asked her to keep tabs on him, but that was down more to Tillman than her. What was more concerning to Lambert was that she was actually having some sort of affair with Tillman. Although both parties were single, the revelation of an affair could be devastating to both their careers, especially given the additional problem of Walker. Lambert had given her the opportunity to be honest with him. If she did, then he might be able to help her if Walker made an accusation. There would be no speaking to Tillman about the issue.

  It was a frustrating diversion, and he decided to head to Sackville’s safe house without her. Sophie called as he made his way through the rush hour traffic. A blast of rain came from nowhere, thick jets of water battering his windscreen. He put his wipers on their highest speed, the rubber blades squeaking against the glass, as he switched on the speakerphone system. ‘Hi Soph, all okay?’

  ‘Hi Michael. Have you got a sec?’

  ‘What is it?’ he said, sensing a hint of concern in her voice.

  ‘It’s nothing really. Well, maybe it is. I don’t know…’

  ‘It’s okay, Sophie. Tell me from the beginning.’

  Sophie paused. It sounded as if she was about to burst into tears.

  ‘Is your mum still there?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s on her way over.’ The words were stunted, out of sync.

  ‘Tell me, Sophie,’ he said, as softly as possible.

  ‘As I said, it’s probably nothing. I just went to open the back door and noticed it was still open. I swore I locked last night. I checked it at least twice. You know how I am.’

  In all the years he’d known her, she’d always been a stickler for security. She wasn’t quite OCD about it, but was certainly borderline. ‘Okay, let’s not panic. You’re sure it’s not…’

  ‘Michael, if you’re about to say something about it being baby related, I can assure you I’m not losing my mind,’ she said, control returning to her voice.

  ‘No, I wasn’t going to say that,’ said Lambert, unsure as to what he was going to say.

  ‘Anyway, when I tried to lock the door, I couldn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean, you couldn’t?’

  ‘Just what I said. The lock’s broken. When I put the key in, there’s nothing for it to latch onto. I hate the idea that someone was in our house.

  The rain thundered harder onto the windscreen, Lambert unable to see more than a couple of metres in front. He took a deep breath. It was probably nothing, but he couldn’t take the risk. ‘Has anything been taken?’

  ‘No. Nothing has been disturbed. The alarm wasn’t activated either so I imagine it’s just a problem with the lock.’

  ‘Call a locksmith. Emergency if necessary. Make sure you get the locks checked on all the doors and windows. Don’t worry about the cost. I’ve got an appointment now, but I’ll come straight round afterwards.’

  ‘I feel anxious, Michael’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s just one of those things. People get broken into. Make sure the alarm is working. Call the locksmith for now, and I’ll be round as soon as possible.’

  Sophie hung up, and Lambert immediately called Devlin. He told him to send a patrol car to Sophie’s house and to wait for instruction.

  Sackville was only semi-coherent by the time he reached the safe house. Lambert exchanged looks with one of the guarding officers who just shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s all he does. Do you want us to stop him from now on?’ asked the officer.

  Sackville was slumped on the sofa watching an obscure detective show from the seventies. He held a full glass of single malt in one hand, the other hand busy scratching his ample stomach. ‘We should, but considering what he’s been through… Perhaps keep a bit of an eye on him, though?

  ‘Sir,’ mumbled the officer, leaving the room.

  ‘What you drinking, Eustace?’

  ‘Hey, Michael,’ said Sackville, lifting his glass and spilling some of the contents onto his shirt. He tried to pull his body into a more respectable position but the effort proved too much. He lay there on his side, and grinned inanely at Lambert.

  Lambert moved to the sofa, and helped manoeuvre the man into a sitting position. ‘Let me take that for a bit,’ he said, tearing the whisky glass from Sackville’s grip.

  Sackville glared at Lambert, as if he’d just insulted him. Seconds later and his concentration had wavered. ‘Michael,’ he said, again.

  ‘Jesus, how much of this have you had?’

  Sackville smiled, and held his hands a metre apart. ‘About this much.’

  Lambert ordered the officer to brew a pot of coffee. ‘Make it strong,’ he said. He wanted to lecture Eustace, tell him that he wasn’t honouring Moira by drinking himself into oblivion, but how could he lecture a man who had nothing. He sat in silence and watched the drama unfold on the television. The obligatory car chase held his interest for a time as he counted the different, now
non-existent, car models.

  It was an hour later before he could get any sense out of Sackville. He practically had to force him to drink the coffee and even now the man was slurring when he spoke. ‘There’s been some developments, Eustace.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I met Mia Helmer again.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘She told me you’ve been suspended.’

  Sackville’s eyes widened, numerous lines spreading across his forehead. ‘What, suspended? What the hell?’

  ‘Sorry, Eustace, she didn’t give me the details. Can you think why?’

  ‘Because she’s a jealous… Ah, what does it matter. I wouldn’t want to go back there now. What’s the point?’

  Despite the outburst, Lambert thought Sackville wasn’t that surprised. His protestations were a bit of a show, exacerbated by Sackville’s alcohol intake. Helmer had mentioned Sackville hadn’t been providing copy for months now and Lambert presumed she’d finally had enough, though he marvelled at her timing.

  Lambert opened the cover of his iPad and uploaded a picture. ‘Do you know this man, Eustace?’

  Sackville produced a pair of glasses from a side table. He put them on and squinted at the image on the screen. ‘No, should I?’

  The picture was of Neil Lennox, taken by his care worker weeks before his death. Lennox didn’t look well in the picture. His face was gaunt. Beneath his hollow eyes, and crusted lips, flaps of skins hung from his neck.

  Lambert loaded the photo from Lennox’s police file. It was staggering the damage time had caused. In the old picture of Lennox, he looked fit and healthy. ‘This is him thirty years ago.’

  Sackville adjusted his glasses and stared at the picture. His eyes diluted, and he shifted in his seat. ‘I remember him. DI Lennox. Nasty.’

  ‘Good memory, Eustace. Nasty?’

  Sackville took off his glasses and focused as best he could on Lambert. ‘Because that is what he was. He was a nasty piece of work. He was on the take, hands in all sorts of pockets. I tried to…’ Sackville shook his head, his eyes moistening. ‘Let’s just say, he didn’t enjoy me questioning his actions.’

  ‘Did you run a story on him? We didn’t find him on your files.’

  Sackville shook his head. ‘They would never have run it. You think I would get a story out about one of your lot back then? Jesus. He’d have had to murder someone in cold daylight for me to have had a chance. I had some stuff on him, but nothing I could ever print or corroborate.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘I just told you. Backhanders, that sort of thing. It was endemic, but Lennox was in with some evil people. Everyone hated him, even his own team and they were mainly like him. Can I have a drink now? Bad memories and what have you.’

  Lambert poured him a small measure of the single malt. Sackville grabbed the drink, took in a deep whiff, and downed it in one.

  ‘He’s dead, Eustace.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sackville. ‘Sorry, that’s a bit insensitive, but he was not a nice man, Michael.’

  ‘It’s not what I meant. He’s dead. The same way as Moira, as the Dempsey family. His wrists were slashed’

  Sackville struggled to his feet, making his way to the sideboard where he retrieved the bottle of whisky. He drank long and hard, paused for breath, and drank again. ‘When?’ he said, his breathing rapid.

  ‘Six months ago.’

  ‘Same?’

  Lambert took the bottle from him. If he let him drink any more tonight then he might as well go home. ‘We think so. It looked like a suicide, but there was no weapon. It was possibly the first murder’

  Sackville collapsed on the sofa, his eyes blinked rapidly. Lambert could only guess what crazed thoughts were going through his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You have to think, Eustace. What links you, Lennox, and Laura Dempsey?’

  ‘You think this is about me?’

  ‘Don’t you? You think the killer had a grudge against Moira and let you live for the sake of it? Do you think he wanted the whole of the Dempsey family dead with the exception of Laura Dempsey?

  ‘So it’s my fault.’ Tears welled in Sackville’s eyes.

  ‘No. Don’t get maudlin on me, Eustace. You have to think. What links you and Dempsey, both of you to Lennox?’

  A snarl appeared on Sackville’s face, a coldness Lambert hadn’t seen in him before. The alcohol had changed him and Lambert feared that the conversation was essentially over. ‘I can imagine loads of people wanted Lennox dead, and heaven knows I’ve never been the greatest man. But why Moira, what did she ever do?’

  ‘What about Blake? Did he know Lennox in anyway?’

  The bottle of whisky slipped from Sackville’s hand as his eyes slipped close. Lambert reached over and caught it in time. He tilted Sackville’s bulk into a makeshift recovery position. After tipping the contents of the bottle down the kitchen sink, he called for the officer. ‘Keep an eye on him. He’s trying to kill himself. No more alcohol is allowed in this house, you understand?’

  The officer nodded.

  Lambert took one last look at Sackville. ‘What the hell did you do, Eustace?’ he said to the sleeping figure.

  Chapter 33

  Lambert called Kennedy from the car. ‘I need you to run tonight’s debrief. I want Sackville’s notes scrutinised for details on Lennox. Have we had any hits on Lennox’s old cases?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but I’ve tracked down his former colleague, Doug Lindsay. I’ve arranged to meet him tomorrow at ten a.m. He’s in London for the day. He chose to meet in Leicester Square of all places.’

  ‘Text me details and I’ll meet you beforehand. Call the hospital and tell Dr Hughes we’ll be back tomorrow after our meeting with Lindsay. Get together as much info on Blake, and Lennox. We need pictures, especially of Blake when he was younger. See if we can help her remember.’

  He thought about the Watcher as he drove to Sophie’s house. He hadn’t made contact for some time. Although a normal burglary was more likely, Lambert couldn’t get away from the thought that the Watcher had broken the lock on Sophie’s door. It was probably designed to divert his focus. It was certainly effective but he couldn’t take the risk. Lambert had been under the presumption that the killer watched as some form of revenge, but what if there was more to it? What if he had to be close to the suffering for it really to stimulate his own emotional response? Potentially, the need for revenge could be satisfied with a finite list of people. But if the killer was getting some form of satisfaction from his own reaction to the murders, it could make his list of victims endless, and could make it easier to add someone like Sophie to the list.

  A plain clothes officer stopped him as he walked the pathway to his old house. Lambert showed him his warrant card.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the officer.

  ‘Anything suspicious?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘No, sir.’ We’ve checked around the back. There is access to the house from a small dirt lane but we didn’t see any damage to the fence. To be honest, sir, we’re not sure why we’re here. A locksmith is in the house now.’

  ‘You checked his credentials?’ said Lambert, controlling a rising panic as he rang the doorbell.

  ‘Obviously, sir.’

  ‘Okay, sit tight,’ said Lambert, glancing in the direction of the officer’s car.

  Lambert was relieved to see a bedraggled looking Sophie open the door, a sleeping child locked to her chest by way of a baby carrier. Sophie’s face was paler than he’d ever remembered, her skin puffy with dots of red. ‘Hi,’ she said, turning her back and walking down the hallway.

  Sophie’s mother was in the kitchen-dining area, studying the work of the locksmith with a critical eye. She glanced at Lambert with a dismissive sneer, as if he was somehow to blame for the broken door.

  The locksmith stopped working and nodded at Lambert. ‘Bit of a weird one,’ he said to Lambert, unbidden. ‘The catch seems to have snapped, see,’ he said, show
ing Lambert a broken piece of metal which made no sense to him.

  ‘Why is it weird?’

  ‘It doesn’t really just happen, or not that I recall anyway.’

  Lambert noted the look of concern on Sophie’s face. ‘Is it possible it’s been tampered with?’

  The man grunted, rubbed his chin whilst he gave the matter his full consideration. ‘I don’t think so. They’d have had to open up the casing, and there’s no sign of that occurring.’

  ‘So it could be bad luck?’

  ‘Must be,’ said the locksmith, as if anything else was beyond his imagination. ‘Anyway, that will hold you for now.’ He moved the handle of the door up and down, locked and unlocked the door twice.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Michael,’ said Sophie, once the locksmith had left. ‘I know I’m being silly.’ She undid the carrier, the baby asleep. She lifted her from her body and placed her in a carrycot on the floor of the kitchen.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Sophie’s mother, lifting the carrycot and exiting the kitchen area. Sophie was on the verge of tears. He’d seen the look on her face countless times before.

  ‘How are you sleeping?’ asked Lambert. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her and offer his help, but wasn’t sure about the boundaries any more. ‘Sit down, I’ll make some tea,’ he said, with nothing else to offer.

  Sophie smiled and took a seat on one of the dining chairs. ‘I must be seeing a new Michael here. I can’t remember the last time you offered to make me tea.’

  ‘Don’t get lippy. White tea?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, smiling again as if all her cares had momentarily disappeared.

  He made the tea and joined her. He wondered if he would ever come to terms with the situation. Sitting in a room which used to be his, with the woman who was still his wife. ‘Is she sleeping well?’

  ‘Not too bad. I’m getting up twice a night to feed, but aside from that she sleeps well and Mum has been great.’ She hesitated, a gesture Lambert had become familiar with over the last three years. Ever since Chloe’s death, they’d had to tiptoe around each other, both scared of saying the wrong thing.