by Matt Brolly
He locked himself in the room and fell to the floor asleep.
Chapter 47
Lambert wiped away the line of drool on his chin, his face pushed down on the hard grey carpet of his office. He rubbed his eyes, and pulled himself into a sitting position. He couldn’t go on like this. If he hadn’t managed to lock his office door in time, someone would have found him collapsed in a heap. The hallucinations and black outs were as constant as ever, but now he was back at work he needed to be more mindful of when they were likely to happen, and to make sure he was not at work. If his condition was discovered, medical would link the episodes to the stress of the job, which could confine him to an administrative role. The only person he’d ever told about the hallucinations was Sarah May. Even Sophie didn’t know. Sarah had suggested finding a private doctor, getting checked out anonymously. He promised himself he would do that as soon as the case was finished.
He unlocked his office door. The incident room was desolate, a single neon light illuminating the open space. It was four-thirty a.m. He made his way to the kitchen area, thankful that someone had left the coffee pot on. He poured a cup, wincing at the burnt taste. He tipped the liquid down the sink, and brewed a new pot.
Back in the office, he continued his research on the former occupants of St Matthew’s. It was obsessive, mundane work with no guarantee of success. It summed up much of his life in the force. Most people didn’t understand the reality of his job, the endless hours of research, the administration, the false starts and wrong turns. This was the real work, the foundation which made everything else possible.
Ivy Rickard, died aged twenty-seven. Suicide.
Matthew Larder, currently a police constable residing in Leamington Spa.
Lambert picked up one last file. He would need to return to the flat for a shower and change of clothes, so this would be the last for this morning. Elaine Jacobson. The photo showed the pouty smile of a typical teenage girl. The file was heavier than the majority of the others.
Lambert turned the cover, his hand starting to shake as he viewed the picture on the next page.
Chapter 48
It was rush hour by the time Matilda made the tube journey to Plaistow in east London. She joined the throng of weary commuters returning home, spending the initial part of the journey pushed up against the chest of a suited businessman.
It was a relief to disembark at the station, the still air humid as she made the short walk to the block of flats where Melissa Brady lived.
A man she’d seen on the tube was heading in her direction, a pace or two behind. Her anxiety had been heighted by the revelations from Lambert about his conversations with the Watcher. She had already written out a record of her own conversation with the killer and the subsequent discussion with Lambert. As Lambert had suggested, she’d encrypted the file and loaded it onto a personal flash drive which she carried with her. As she walked, she thought about the Watcher’s apparent ability to be in many places at once, always one step ahead.
She bent down and pretended to adjust the zip on her boot, and waited for the man to pass her. Dressed in casual clothes, Kennedy noticed the man’s retro trainers. She monitored the man’s progress as he continued down the road not once looking back. Her own surveillance training had told her this was irrelevant. If the man was good at what he was doing, he would never look back. If he was part of a team then he would consider his cover blown and would pass the duty onto someone else.
Kennedy scanned the immediate area. A couple, late teens, were walking hand in hand across the road moving in the opposite direction. An elderly woman pushing an old-fashioned pram followed in their wake. Behind her, a new influx of people had just left the tube station and were scattering in various directions.
Deciding she was just being paranoid, she continued. Brady lived in a ground floor apartment, the outside of which was decorated in square slabs of colour and could have easily been misplaced for the exterior of a school. Matilda rang the buzzer. A woman’s voice answered.
‘Hi, is that Melissa Brady?’
‘Yes, come on in.’
The door opened into the brightly lit corridors which reminded Matilda of a budget hotel. She rounded a corner and saw a woman standing in a doorway surveying the corridor with a nervous shake of the head. ‘Come in,’ she whispered.
Matilda entered the dimly lit interior of Melissa Brady’s flat, her hand brushing against the smooth walls. Brady led her into a kitchenette area which doubled as a living room. A flat screen TV hung on one of the white walls, dominating the space and drawing Matilda’s eye. ‘Thanks for taking the time to see me,’ she said, displaying her warrant card.
‘I was a bit shocked to hear from you, to be honest,’ said Melissa, lighting a cigarette. ‘Want one?’
Matilda shook her head as Melissa sucked greedily on her cigarette, her face breaking into a patchwork of wrinkles. ‘Take a seat. Tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Or wine?’ said Melissa, pouring herself what looked like a second helping from a supermarket own-brand bottle of chardonnay.
‘Still on duty.’
They sat, Matilda making out her dim reflection in the black glass of the dining table. ‘Again, thanks for agreeing to see me.’
Melissa took a second drag of the cigarette, the motion almost an act of desperation. ‘I haven’t thought about that place in a long time. Didn’t really want to if I’m being honest. What’s it all about?’
‘Nothing serious. We’re in the process of tracking down some people we need to speak to who were in the home from that period. At the moment, we’re working through a list of former residents.’
Brady took another drag before speaking. Smoking was clearly not doing her any favours. According to her file she was forty-three but the skin on her face, and in particular around eyes, made her look much older. She eyed Matilda with suspicion. ‘Residents?’ she said, with a throaty laugh.
In her bag, Matilda had a photo of Melissa as a girl. It was hard to equate the smiling face of the young girl in the black and white photograph with the woman before her. It looked as if she’d done okay for herself. The flat was nice enough, well decorated and clean. It could have been much worse considering her background. ‘The children who lived in the home.’
Melissa stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I wouldn’t call it much of a home either. Who are you looking for?’
‘No one in particular. We’re working through our lists and trying to locate everyone. We’ve spoken to a number of people.’ Matilda felt the conversation running away from her. ‘How long were you at the home for, Melissa?’
Melissa face twisted in confusion as she lit a second cigarette. ‘I was there from the age of eight. I was taken from my mother.’
Matilda had read Brady’s file. Her mother had been a habitual drug taker. Social services had been investigating her over a number of years, and had taken Melissa away from her on numerous occasions before. In the end, her mother had been sentenced to a two-year custodial sentence following her part in an armed robbery and Melissa had found herself at the home. ‘How long were you there?’
‘Until I was sixteen. I managed to get a job at a laundrette and managed to escape the place.’
‘I know this must be difficult, but could you tell me a little about the home.’
Another drag. ‘If you stop calling it a home.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Look, it could have been worse, I admit that. Some of the warders were kind enough but there were so many of us, so many with problems. You don’t end up in a place like that unless you have sort of a problem or you’re very unfortunate. You could have separated the majority of us into orphans and those from problem families. Some were what we called lifers, some passing through.’
‘You lived in dormitories?’
‘Yes. Chaotic. Loads of us to a room.’
Matilda pictured the scene. A room of lost girls, scared and alone in the dark. ‘Can you tell me some mor
e about the warders, Melissa? Were there any things you ever saw, anything not right.’
Brady’s hand trembled as she first lifted her glass for a swig of wine, and then retrieved her cigarette. ‘What do you really want to know?’
Matilda looked hard at Brady, at the frightened girl behind the stone-like front. ‘We’ve had some serious reports about wrongdoings at the home from the period you were there. I know this may be difficult, but do you remember anything along those lines?’
Brady retrieved her bottle of wine from the fridge. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘No. Thank you though.’
Brady downed half her glass in one long gulp. ‘Where to begin? Some of the warders were kind, but others were not. There were punishments, and I don’t imagine they were legal even then.’
Matilda leant in. ‘Did anything happen to you?’
‘I was one of the lucky ones. I endured the odd fumbling from the older teenage boys but nothing from the adults, thank God.’
‘And the others?’
Brady strained her neck forward, fighting the watering in her eyes. ‘There was so much. Some of the older girls would disappear for the night. When they returned they would be different. Some of them had gifts, cheap little trinkets. Fucking pathetic really,’ said Brady, laughing and crying at the same time.
‘Were you ever approached by anyone outside the home?’
‘Once, on my fifteenth birthday. A couple of guys used to hang around the home all the time. They would supply things for the girls. Cigs and alcohol, harder stuff sometimes. One of them started giving me the spiel. Told me I was pretty, that sort of thing. Pretended he wanted to take me to dinner, buy me gifts.’
‘And you refused?’
‘I tried and he didn’t push it, though he tried it a couple of times. Then I got the job and I was out of there.’
‘They let you leave, aged sixteen?’
‘I was lucky. My aunt worked in the launderette too. Moved in with her until I found a room. She’s dead now, along with Mum. I’ve no family left now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m sorry to push you on this, Melissa but I’ve looked at your record.’
‘I knew this was bullshit. What’s this about?’
‘We’re investigating an accusation of a prostitute ring at the home.’
‘But that’s got nothing to do with me. I had long gone by the time I was arrested for that. I was still working in the laundrette and needed some more money. I got caught on my second night, some undercover cop. I accepted the charge and never did it again. The best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Okay, I understand. What about the other girls, did you stay in contact?’
Brady shook her head. ‘I couldn’t. I needed to make a clear break. That was the only way.’
Matilda showed the woman a picture of Blake from that period. ‘Was this the man who approached you?’
Brady studied the image as if it was a lost artefact. ‘I can’t remember. I’m sorry.’
Later that evening, Matilda lay in bed and thought about what Melissa had told her. She’d hinted at what amounted to systematic abuse at the institution, and Matilda believed the place should be fully investigated. She decided she would talk to Lambert about passing their research over to a cold case team.
Next to her, Glenn Tillman lay on his back, the considerable width of his chest high in the air as he let out the occasional growl of a snore. She’d given in and visited him after meeting Melissa, the need not to be alone outweighing her concerns over her relationship with her superior. She elbowed the man in the ribs, and he turned onto his side rubbing the area where she’d hit him. Thirty seconds later, the snoring resumed.
She switched off the bedside lamp, comforted by the blanket of darkness. She tried to sleep but kept returning to the case. The Watcher’s voice was still fresh in her head. He’d tried to destroy her working relationship with Lambert. She had called her father en route to Tillman’s. He’d been surprised to hear from her and had probably sensed the concern in her voice. It was comforting to talk to him. She hoped that Lambert was correct. That the Watcher was trying to distract them, that her father was a diversion meant to take their focus away from the main case. She wasn’t convinced Lambert fully believed his own theory, nor did she believe he was being totally open with her about everything.
As for the man lying next to her, he knew that Lambert had run a search on her father. Tillman had been adamant that their private and professional lives remained separate, and she’d naturally agreed but that was before her father was mentioned. She wanted to broach the subject with him but that would involve Lambert, which would lead to questions she was unprepared to answer.
The strangled cry of a vixen on heat startled her, sending a wave of adrenaline through her system. It was ridiculous being this on edge. She walked to the window, peered out of the curtains onto the twilight world and couldn’t help but wonder if the killer was out there watching her.
‘Will you go to sleep?’ said Tillman, before returning to his snore infused slumber.
Matilda crawled in beside the gigantic man, the touch of his skin warm and clammy against her own, but she was pleased to have him next to her. She closed her eyes, and slept fitfully until her phone rang at four-thirty a.m.
She pressed the green button on the phone and sprang to her feet so as not to wake the sleeping Tillman. ‘Lambert?’ she said, as if dreaming.
‘Get to the office, Kennedy. I think I’ve found the first victim.’
Chapter 49
Lambert was still holding Elaine Jacobson’s file when Kennedy arrived, forty minutes after he’d called her. She was out of breath, dressed in the same jeans and top she’d been wearing yesterday. ‘Here,’ said Lambert, handing her the file.
He studied Kennedy’s face. Her eyes narrowed, her lips tightening as she read and reread the record of Elaine Jacobson’s last day on earth. ‘It says suicide,’ said Kennedy, handing the file back.
Lambert looked at the pictures again, the images forever branded onto his brain. Elaine had been found dead in the home’s bathroom on the morning of the tenth of June, 1985. The file said she’d committed suicide. A single rusted razor blade had been found next to her body. Both her wrists had been sliced horizontally. The coroner’s verdict was death by exsanguination.
‘I know what it says. Did you read who discovered the body?’
Kennedy nodded. ‘The head nurse, Laura Patchett, Laura Dempsey. This is incredible. What do you think it means?’
Lambert had been thinking about nothing else since he’d called her forty minutes ago, but was no closer to an answer. ‘We need to speak to Laura again, find out if she thinks it really was a suicide. We need to track down anyone who was close to Elaine Jacobson at the time, even anyone who was at the home when she died. What about that woman you met last night?’
Kennedy cross-checked her notes. ‘Melissa was a couple of years younger at the time but she was there.’
‘Then I’m sure she remembers. Go see her now. I’ll speak to the hospital, make sure Dempsey is lucid.’
Lambert called the hospital and arranged to meet Dr Hughes at nine-thirty a.m. He rushed back to the flat, showered and changed in minutes, and was at the hospital in plenty of time. He thought about the date coincidence. It would be thirty years to the day tomorrow since Elaine Jacobson died. It was probably a coincidence but it would also be Curtis Blake’s sixtieth birthday. Had he been celebrating his birthday that evening, trying out a method of murder which looked like suicide? One thing was certain. Elaine’s injuries were consistent with those inflicted on Moira Sackville, the Dempsey family, and DI Lennox.
Laura Dempsey had been moved to a different section of the hospital. Lambert traipsed the antiseptic smelling corridors, past the slow moving figures of patients and visitors, until he reached the ward where Dempsey was being kept.
Dr Hughes was waiting f
or him. The white coat was absent, Lambert surprised to see the woman wearing casual clothes. ‘Day off,’ she said, reading his thoughts. ‘Sort of.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve dragged you in.’
‘No, I had to be here anyway. Is this absolutely necessary?’
‘I’m afraid it is. Mrs Dempsey may hold information which is vital to finding the murderer of her family.’
‘You will have to make it quick, she’s only recently recovered from your last visit.’
Lambert followed the woman into the room. Laura Dempsey was sitting up watching television. She closed her eyes on seeing Lambert, her hand reaching for the remote.
‘Hello, Laura.’
Laura nodded. She’d lost weight around her face. Her cheek bones were more prominent, her eyes clouded by thick bags.
Lambert took a seat by her bed. ‘I am sorry to put you through this again. We’ve discovered some additional information.’ He showed her the cover picture of Elaine Jacobson. The fifteen-year-old, weeks or days away from dying. ‘Do you recognise her?’
Dempsey took the file and Lambert saw something change within her. It was different to before. Last time, she’d panicked and lost herself. This time she sighed, almost in defeat. ‘Yes. I remember.’
Lambert exchanged looks with Dr Hughes who nodded, giving him permission to continue. ‘Can you tell me the girl’s name?’
‘Elaine. Jacobson, I think. She died at St Matthew’s. I called the coroner.’
‘What else can you tell me?’
Dempsey shrugged. ‘What’s to tell? One of the boys found her in the morning. One of the warders called me to the scene. She was cold, her blood was black on the white tiles.’ Dempsey was monotone, devoid of emotion.
‘How long had she been there?’
‘All night probably. She’d been ticked off for bedtime. She must have crept out in the middle of the night.’
‘You called the police?’
‘I believe they were there when the ambulance arrived.’
