Dead Embers (DCI Michael Lambert crime series Book 3)

by Matt Brolly

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Harrington. ‘Like I said on the phone, these are not the remains of Mr and Mrs Jardine – unless they’ve been missing for the last few days. Despite the fire, I was able to run a number of tests. There was no sign of rigor in the bodies at all, which suggests they died a minimum of thirty-six to forty-eight hours ago. There are also signs of decomposition in the internal organs. I would estimate the time of death to be at least seven to eight days. It could possibly be longer if the killer was keeping them somewhere cold.’

  Lambert frowned. ‘Any means of identification?’ he said, sensing the case slipping away.

  Harrington placed her right hand on his shoulder. ‘As long as they had a dentist at some point, we could be OK. Mr Stowage is checking the dental records. Both bodies have well maintained dentistry so we should be in luck.’

  ‘In luck?’

  ‘Think of that little, girl, Michael,’ said Harrington. ‘Her parents are only missing now and you have the opportunity to find them.’

  Lambert nodded. ‘I hope it’s that easy. Is the method of death still the blow to the back of the head?’

  ‘I believe so, but we’ll be going through chemical analysis. Because of the fire, its difficult to give an exact time of death.’

  ‘You’ll let me know as soon as you have an identification for me?’ he said, taking off his gown.

  ‘You’ll be one of the first.’

  ‘Thanks, Lindsey.’

  ‘No problem, Michael. I hope you find them.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Tillman had agreed to meet Lambert at a bar near the Chislehurst Caves. The Chief Super was already halfway through his first drink by the time Lambert arrived.

  ‘You’re starting early,’ said Lambert, glancing at the tumbler of gold liquid in Tillman’s hands.

  ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere. Now tell me, what’s so important that you had to drag me out of the comfort of my office to this god-forsaken part of town?’

  Lambert zipped up his jacket, nursing a black coffee he’d ordered from the barmaid inside.

  ‘Two things. First, Duggan came to see me last night,’ he said, taking a seat on the hard wooden bench opposite Tillman.

  If his superior was bothered, it didn’t show on his face. He remained inscrutable, staring at Lambert as if he’d told him something he already knew.

  ‘You didn’t get me here for that, did you?’ he asked.

  ‘You know they effectively want me to keep tabs on you? To report your every movement,’ said Lambert.

  Tillman shrugged. ‘When’s the last time you saw Matilda? She’s been asking after you.’

  It pained Lambert every time he saw his former partner – however much she protested, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for her injuries.

  ‘Tell her I’ll see her as soon as possible’ said Lambert. ‘Though it hasn’t got past me that you’re changing the subject.’

  ‘I’ve told you before she doesn’t blame you for it,’ said Tillman.

  Lambert shook his head to stop his boss from talking further.

  ‘Why would she?’ continued Tillman undeterred. ‘She was just doing her job like we all were that day.’

  ‘I know, Glenn. Can we get back to the subject at hand, Duggan’s investigation into you?’

  Tillman’s lip curled as he took a short sip of his whisky. Rubbing his hands together, he said, ‘What’s his latest?’

  ‘I think the paramedics have been turned. Duggan claims to have two witnesses that you withdrew your gun.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  Lambert remembered the desperation in Tillman’s eyes, the pain which had made him draw the gun, and his own quick movement with the pepper spray. ‘I’m not going to change my statement, you know that, but I don’t like it.’

  ‘Let me worry about it. Duggan is all bluster. He’ll soon blow himself out.’

  Lambert doubted this particular wisdom but didn’t push further. They had greater concerns at the moment.

  ‘So, what’s the real reason why you called me here?’ said Tillman.

  ‘I came straight from the pathologist’s, Glenn. You’re not going to like what I have to say.’

  He relayed Harrington’s findings as Tillman stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  ‘You’re telling me neither of those bodies belongs to Caroline Jardine?’

  ‘Those are the facts, Glenn,’ he said, leaning back in his seat.

  ‘Christ, what the hell does this mean?’

  ‘It means DI Jardine and her husband may still be alive,’ said Lambert.

  ‘But why this?’

  ‘I think it was either a distraction to put us off the trail for a few days before we knew we were dealing with a missing person’s case…’

  ‘Or?’ said Tillman.

  ‘Or, the killer thought that he would get away with it. The way those bodies were burnt, my guess is that if the fire service had arrived ten or twenty minutes later there’d have been nothing left but bone.’

  Tillman brushed away a bead of sweat as it dribbled down his cheek. ‘Even so, if the killer knew anything about his job he would have realised that wouldn’t prove much of a deterrent to solving the victims’ identities.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not that clued up on forensics,’ said Lambert. ‘But I agree. I think he’s taken the Jardines and left these other two in their place.’

  ‘Practice run?’ asked Tillman.

  ‘Could be. We’re matching dental records as we speak. All the burns are post-mortem but we knew that already.’

  Tillman shook his head and downed the rest of his whisky in one gulp. ‘I knew something like this would happen,’ he said.

  Lambert scowled. ‘You knew something like this was going to happen?’ he repeated, not hiding the incredulity in his voice.

  ‘Every time I put you in charge of a case, Lambert – every single time – something out of the ordinary occurs.’

  It was Lambert’s turn to shake his head. Tillman was being purposely facetious, but it was clear part of him believed what he was saying. They’d come to blows on many cases before and Lambert understood that only a thin sense of allegiance kept Tillman loyal to him.

  Tillman stood up and went to the bar, returning a minute later with a second large order of whiskey and a glass for Lambert.

  ‘Drink it,’ said Tillman.

  The cold air of the beer garden bit into Lambert’s skin as he sipped at the drink.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ said Tillman. ‘We’ve gone from a simple arson stroke murder to a possible arson stroke murder stroke missing person stroke kidnapping case?’

  ‘Looks that way,’ said Lambert. He took a second sip of the drink, the heat of the alcohol filling his throat and spreading across his chest. ‘I’m going to need to speak to DCI Barnes again.’

  ‘That’s going to be a fun conversation, but leave it to me for the time being.’

  ‘I want to speak to him in person, Glenn. I need full access to DI Jardine’s cases. Not just the recent ones.’

  Tillman leant into his chair and propped his shoulders backwards, his chest darting outwards until the buttons on his shirt reached breaking point. He exhaled loudly, sounding anything but healthy. Reaching down for the double measure of whisky he surveyed the amber liquid, swirling it in his glass before downing its contents.

  ‘This is a new one to me,’ he said sighing. ‘Is your pathologist friend confident she’ll be able to identify the bodies?’

  ‘They have dental records,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Well, I’ll look forward to hearing those names,’ said Tillman, groaning once again as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’ll speak to Barnes now. I’ll get those files to you by the end of the day.’

  ‘And Duggan?’ said Lambert.

  ‘They’ve got nothing on me, Michael, and they never will.’

  Lambert sighed as an unspoken thought passed between the two men. Tillman knew as well as Lambe
rt did that he had the power to bring Tillman down. What Duggan had said was true. Clearly, Tillman was not concerned about his loyalty. ‘You worry too much, Michael. I’ll be in touch once I’ve spoken to Barnes. I presume Harrington is under orders not to speak about this?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Just keep it that way for the time being. There’s a chance the Jardines are alive and any advantage is a bonus at this stage. We continue to act like it’s the Jardines’ murders we’re investigating. Let’s lull this bastard into some vague sense of security. You’ll tell Croft and Bickland at this stage only.’

  Lambert finished the last of his drink as Tillman headed for the exit.

  As he left the bar, he felt a lightness in his body. At first he mistook it for a side effect of the alcohol he’d drunk, but then he realised that he’d been thinking about Teresa Jardine – and that the faint possibility that she’d see her parents again, however unlikely, was responsible.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time Lambert returned to the station the joyous effect of the alcohol had rubbed off. His throat was dry and the beginnings of a headache sprouted from the left side of his forehead. Croft and Bickland sat in accidental imitation of Tillman as he shared the news. At one point, Lambert nearly told Bickland to close his mouth, the DS sitting mouth agape like a schoolboy learning the facts of life.

  ‘At this point the news goes no further than this office. The only other people who know that the bodies don’t belong to Caroline Jardine and her husband are Chief Superintendent Tillman, the pathologist Lindsey Harrington and Caroline’s boss, DCI Barnes.’

  ‘How does this change things going forward?’ asked Bickland.

  ‘Our main responsibility now is locating Mr and Mrs Jardine, at least until we find out whose bodies those were in the house.’

  ‘Why kidnap with no ransom note?’ asked Croft.

  ‘At the moment we’re working on the presumption that the arsonists wanted us to think the bodies belonged to Mr and Mrs Jardine, at least initially.’

  ‘It’s been over forty-eight hours now,’ said Bickland.

  Lambert’s body tensed. ‘Exactly. It’s to our great disadvantage. For nearly forty-eight hours we’ve been investigating a murder case when we should, at least partly, have been working on a missing persons case.’ He knew, as he was sure the others did, how crucial this time period was. Unless they were lucky, or unless whoever was responsible wanted them to, it was highly unlikely they would ever see Mr and Mrs Jardine again.

  ‘We need to extend our work on the CCTV footage,’ he informed them. ‘Get as many bodies in as necessary, but I want to see where that van entered from and, more importantly, where it left.’

  ‘I’ve been tracing some routes, sir,’ said Croft. ‘Possible exits from the crime scene where the van could have avoided detection.’

  Lambert had feared there would have been such routes. ‘Find the first camera on each route and search for the van. If they’ve travelled beyond London there must be a point where we spot them. Bickland, I want you to go to the pathologists. Stick with Lindsey Harrington and her colleague until they’ve made an ID. Please remind Ms Harrington this information is not to become public knowledge.’

  * * *

  Later that evening, Lambert found himself back on his old street in Beckenham. He sat in his car, the radio tuned to 6 Music, watching with absent interest as his former neighbours went about their business.

  He’d lived on the street for over fifteen years with his then-wife, Sophie, and his daughter, Chloe. The visits were an unhealthy habit which had started shortly after the Watcher case. Officially, the house was still his – at least a percentage of it – and it was surreal viewing the building from this abstract position knowing he couldn’t enter without causing something of a disruption. Days never passed without him thinking about Chloe. He was resigned to the fact, even welcomed it. It was an honour to carry her memory, however painful. Occasionally minutes would pass where thoughts of her would leave his mind, only for the memory to rush at him, making the wounds of her departure as raw as they were on that first day.

  He tried to turn his thoughts to the arson case in Chislehurst. By tomorrow morning they would have to go public. He was waiting to hear back from Tillman about Barnes’ response to the situation. He wanted to speak to Caroline Jardine’s direct superior. If she had been kidnapped, then chances were it was related to her work. Barnes had mentioned an organised gang case she’d been working on in Hackney, and Lambert was keen to get more information about her involvement.

  The case was finely balanced. Hopefully the identification of the two bodies would be made soon and this would change things. Until then, everything was focused on finding the van, or at least those responsible for allowing the van access to the gated community.

  Lambert was wasting his time in the street, but sometimes a case was best viewed from a distance. Maybe he was kidding himself but it felt like justification enough for him to sit there and watch for a glimpse of his wife.

  The shrill tone of his phone dragged him back to reality.

  ‘Glenn,’ he said, answering the call.

  ‘I just met with Barnes,’ said Tillman, avoiding pleasantries. ‘Naturally he blames us for not discovering the bodies didn’t belong to Mr and Mrs Jardine earlier. Even more naturally, I told him where he could shove his accusation.’

  Lambert was not surprised by either comment.

  ‘The files from DI Jardine’s last cases, the last five years of her work, are uploaded to the secure section on the System.’

  Lambert doubted there was anything on the System that was secure from Tillman’s prying eyes, but he held his tongue.

  ‘How did Barnes react when you told him that Jardine was potentially still alive?’

  ‘Hard to read – he has a better poker face than you. It’s possible he was surprised. His eyes twitched. Whether it was surprise at the news that Jardine had been kidnapped, or that we’d only just found out, is still unclear.’

  ‘What about going public?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Barnes is in agreement with you for the time being. Best we let the kidnappers believe we think she’s the victim of arson, though I believe Barnes’ motivation is more selfish. This all has the smell of one enormous cock-up and I imagine he is busying away behind the scenes trying to divert blame.’

  Lambert hung up. For an absurd second, he almost opened the car door and walked over to his former house. He wanted to examine Jardine’s files on the system from the comfort of his old office and instinct almost guided him across the street. Instead, he started the car and was about to set off when he noticed movement at the front door opposite.

  Seconds later, Sophie walked out into the front garden carrying some items for recycling. Lambert’s chest trembled as he watched her bend from the knees to place the items in the recycle bin. She was dressed for indoors, in light-coloured jeans and a vest, but still she stopped in the coldness of the early evening and glanced both ways down the street as if she knew someone was spying on her. Lambert crouched down in his seat, feeling ludicrous. It wasn’t fair on Sophie and it wasn’t fair on Sarah. He needed to get out of the habit of coming here at times of turmoil. He peered outwards from his crouched position, uncomfortable in the role of voyeur. What would Sophie think of him if she could see him now? He imagined she would pity him, would be saddened that his life had come to this. Somehow that was worse than her being angry.

  Eventually Sophie gave in. With a last glance in his direction, she retreated inside.

  Lambert started the car again, vowing never to return, and set off back towards Chislehurst.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lambert met Chapman outside the ruins of the Jardine house. In the fading light, the house had taken on a ghostly appearance, as if haunted by its former occupants. A swirling wind attacked Lambert as he stepped out of the car. It whistled through the remains of the house, rustling the tarpaulin which had been stretched to
cover the numerous holes in the structure.

  A second man stood with the fire chief. ‘William Finch,’ said the man, offering his hand to Lambert. ‘Crime Fire Officer with the Met.’

  ‘Right, gentleman. If the pleasantries are over, let’s find whatever shelter there is in the house,’ said Chapman.

  Chapman led them through each room, talking mainly to Finch who was taking copious notes. He repeated what he’d told Lambert about the American arsonist, Orr, and showed them the area in the loft where the final device had been left inactivated.

  Finch bent over and examined the area as if the empty space of carpet could tell him something. ‘No signs of accelerants anywhere?’ he asked.

  ‘Not up here. The living room was drenched in petrol.’

  ‘Maybe he ran out of time,’ said Lambert.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Finch. ‘If he’d wanted to light the loft, he would have started there.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Chapman. ‘I think he wanted the fire to be contained to the first two floors.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘All the activated devices were downstairs. Naturally the fire would spread, but we’re stationed two minutes away. Even if the fire had reached the loft there was always a good chance the device would be recoverable.’

  Lambert made a mental note to listen to the emergency call tapes. ‘You’re saying he wanted the device discovered?’

  ‘You’re the detective,’ said Chapman. ‘I’ve seen this before, though. For some of them it’s not enough to burn things. They need to show how clever they are too.’

  ‘And the wing where Teresa was found?’

  ‘Nothing in that area at all. It was furthest from the epicentre of the fire.’

  Lambert wondered again if the arsonist knew Teresa Jardine had been in her room.

  ‘Either way,’ continued Chapman, ‘it was merciful we got there when we did. One or two minutes later and that girl wouldn’t have been so lucky.’

  Downstairs, Chapman pointed out the scorch marks on the floor of the living room where the two bodies were discovered.