Dead Embers (DCI Michael Lambert crime series Book 3)

by Matt Brolly

  Tillman pretended to be wounded, clutching his chest in a convincing parody of a heart attack. ‘Of course not,’ he said, snapping back to reality. ‘What do you take me for, Lambert? I don’t do the grunt work.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. Who then?’

  Tillman paused, gauging Lambert for a reaction before he’d even said a name. ‘Matilda.’

  Lambert took a seat. ‘I see.’

  Although he’d seen DS Matilda Kennedy on a couple of occasions since the last time he’d worked with her, the suggestion of seeing her again knocked the wind out of him. He still carried around the guilt of what had happened at the mansion in Hampstead. His complicity in sending her into a situation where she risked being injured.

  ‘She was signed back to work a few weeks back. I decided not to tell you.’

  Lambert tilted his head, unwilling to be provoked by Tillman’s attempt at humour. ‘You think this is the case to get her back working?’ he said, incredulous.

  ‘We need someone we can trust, Michael.’

  ‘But what about…?’

  ‘No one knows about my relationship with her,’ said Tillman.

  ‘I do,’ said Lambert, getting to his feet, his body tensing with anger.

  Tillman’s face reddened, his hand reaching for the thick knot of his tie. ‘Sit down, Lambert. You’d rather work with someone new? One of their lot, for instance, who would be taking notes on your every move? If anyone is going to find Caroline, it’s you, but not with one of Barnes’ team up your arse.’

  Lambert sighed, then started laughing at Tillman’s outburst. ‘What?’ he said.

  Tillman stared hard at him, then did something Lambert couldn’t ever remember him doing before: he joined in with the laughter.

  * * *

  After Tillman left, Lambert called Sarah. She sounded annoyed when she answered and he went to end the call. ‘It’s not important,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, Michael, bit chaotic today. What is it? It’s a pleasant surprise to hear from you during the day.’

  He hesitated, hearing impatience in her tone. They were caught in a conversation neither of them now wanted to be involved in. ‘Matilda’s coming back to work,’ he said.

  ‘Oh that’s great,’ said Sarah, this time with a lightness of voice which made her sound genuine.

  ‘Tillman’s put her on the Jardine case with me.’

  ‘I see, that’s not a problem is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lambert, no longer interested in talking the matter through.

  ‘We’ve gone through this before, Michael. You can’t blame yourself for what happened to her. She doesn’t blame you, and neither does anyone else.’

  Part of him wanted Matilda to blame him, to at least question him over his decision to send her into danger. Another part was desperate to put it all behind him. ‘I know, it will be a little strange but I’m sure it will work out.’

  Sarah sighed and he knew he’d somehow annoyed her. ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll speak to you later,’ said Sarah, hanging up.

  Lambert threw his mobile phone on the desk, heat spreading across his face. More and more of their conversations seemed to be ending this way recently. He couldn’t quite determine why they had so little patience for one another. His natural instinct was to blame himself. He could close himself off at times, and sometimes it took only the slightest thing to make him retreat from communication. It needed resolving, but neither of them had time at present. He vowed he would make more of an effort when the Jardine case was closed, whilst trying to ignore the nagging doubt that he’d made the same vow many times before.

  * * *

  DS Matilda Kennedy arrived an hour later. Lambert was working on the System, accessing files on the suicide website, when the duty sergeant called him. ‘I’ve put her in interview room three for the time being,’ he said.

  Lambert snapped shut his laptop and held his head in his hands. It was ludicrous to feel nervous about seeing Matilda again. He’d seen her since the incident, first by her hospital bed, and later as she’d been convalescing, but never alone. During those months of recovery, he’d always hoped she would return to work but never thought it would happen. He admired her braveru, though he wasn’t surprised by it. In the short period of time they’d worked together she’d proved to be tenacious and relentless in her work ethic. Despite her time away, Lambert was convinced she was perfect for the role Tillman assigned her. Yet he still remained sitting at his desk.

  The decision to send her undercover in Hampstead had been a joint one between Lambert, Tillman, and Matilda herself. It was possibly a failure on Lambert’s part, a sense of self-importance, that made him blame himself for what had happened. She wasn’t a child that needed protecting. Like everyone else on the force, she knew the risks at every stage, and if Tillman didn’t blame himself, then why should he? But it was something he couldn’t shake. He should have articulated his concerns better to Tillman. Should have explained that his guilt would possibly make him over-protective, that the uneasy relationship could jeopardise the case, but Tillman didn’t work that way. Such a response would sound weak to his ears, and he would no doubt point out, correctly, that Matilda didn’t need his protection or pity.

  Lambert punched his fists onto the desk and used his knuckles to push himself up. He opened his office door and made the short walk through the incident room, blood ringing in his ears. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to interview room three.

  DS Matilda Kennedy sat behind a desk like a suspect, staring intently at the screen of her mobile phone. She paused before turning to face him, a stern look on her face. ‘You keep everyone waiting this long?’ she said.

  Lambert held her gaze and tried not to look at the scar tissue on the left side of her face, the legacy of the explosion at the Hampstead mansion. ‘Some of us are busy you know, Kennedy.’

  She smiled and Lambert felt his pulse drop. ‘It’s good to see you again, sir.’

  He would have hugged her, had they not been at work. ‘Enough of the pleasantries, Kennedy, work to do. You cleared for driving?’ he asked.

  ‘I need to wear glasses now, but yes,’ said Matilda.

  ‘Good, I need a lift.’

  ‘Where we going?’

  ‘Cornwall.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lambert would have liked to sleep but was too uncomfortable in the small confines of the car. He sat in companionable silence next to Matilda, who studied the road with an intentness he didn’t remember, leaning towards the windscreen, her new spectacles pushed tight against the bridge of her nose.

  After failing to make contact with Peter Boxall, the owner of the suicide support website, Lambert had obtained the man’s last known address. It would have been easier to have sent over the local CID, especially considering how far south Boxall lived, but it was too much of a chance to take. Lambert was convinced that the arsonist would have had some contact with Turner and Berry. How else to explain their appearance at the Jardine house?

  The suicide website was the most obvious starting point and the fact that the owner had recently withdrawn the site from the web was suspicious. It could have been taken down for simple maintenance, but that sounded too much of a coincidence. Lambert’s guess was the owner had seen the added traffic from the police searches and had taken it down to protect himself. In turn, this suggested he had something to hide. It was possible that closer inspection of the site would reveal that Boxall was aiding people in their suicide attempts and he’d been spooked by the attention. A second possibility – and more of a long shot – was that Boxall knew the arsonist in some way.

  It took over an hour to reach the M25 and nearly the same time again to reach the M3. ‘Are we staying the night?’ asked Kennedy.

  ‘Haven’t packed my overnight bag, but we may have to catch a few hours at some point,’ said Lambert. If things continued like this they wouldn’t reach their destinat
ion until mid-evening, and he already felt too tired to contemplate a six-hour journey home.

  Fortunately, the traffic thinned as they got further south and Matilda made good time on the A30. Lambert was glad to be working with her again, whatever his misgivings about his role in her injuries.

  At eight pm they reached the area where Boxall lived, a remote area on the North coast of Cornwall. The night was cloudless, the sprinkling of stars that mapped the sky a stark contrast to the grey London skyline they’d left behind. They drove up a hill towards a single-track road, covered on each side by unkempt bushes and trees which scraped the sides of the car.

  Boxall lived in a gated area which was a polar opposite to the one in Chislehurst. It appeared to be a single dwelling, a ramshackle bungalow with just one front window and what appeared to be a metal-plated door. The house was fenced in by a makeshift perimeter created by piecemeal material on top of which hung loose reels of barbed wire.

  The faint sounds of the sea greeted them as they opened their car doors. ‘Welcoming looking place,’ said Lambert, stretching his arms towards the sky.

  Matilda peered through the fence towards the building. ‘The front window looks as if it’s frosted over. I can’t tell if there’s a light on.’

  ‘I’ll try the back,’ said Lambert, his footing slipping as he scampered up the small hill to the side of the building.

  Bending down, he picked up a handful of sand. The fence stretched on further than he’d expected, enclosing a compound which held several vehicles, including a derelict school bus. A number of lights decorated the fence, illuminating the rusting vehicles within.

  A sense of isolation rushed over Lambert as he reached the back gate. Behind him, the land stretched into the distance towards the sea. Being there made him miss the hustle of the city. He couldn’t imagine spending prolonged periods of time in such seclusion, the distant sound of lapping waves his only companion.

  From nowhere, a scrambling noise destroyed the tranquillity. Lambert glanced up in time to see an animal rushing him, gums pulled back to reveal a set of large white teeth. The dog – a Rottweiler cross, Lambert guessed – rammed into the other side of the fence, snarling and barking. Lambert tried to control the stream of adrenaline in his system as the dog continued running at the fence, biting at the metallic barrier as if it could snap its way to freedom.

  Lambert twitched as Matilda put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Jesus Christ, Kennedy,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

  Matilda pulled him back into the darkness, far enough away that the dog stopped barking. ‘No movement from within,’ she said.

  ‘Probably used to that thing going off at local wildlife.’

  Matilda chuckled. ‘That thing? You’re not keen on your new friend then?’

  ‘I’m just glad that fence was there,’ said Lambert.

  They crouched down, surveying the house, waiting for a non-canine sign of life.

  ‘It’s a long way to come for nothing,’ said Matilda.

  Lambert sensed the sand shifting beneath him. It reminded him of torturous summer holidays as a child, the sand a constant enemy invading every part of him. ‘You realise one of us is going in,’ said Lambert.

  ‘May I remind you, sir, this is my first day back after a long convalescence,’ said Matilda, a familiar tone of mischievousness in her voice.

  ‘You’re going to play that card, are you?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  They retreated back to the car, mapping out the full extent of the building.

  ‘We could always wait till morning, get the local plod involved,’ said Matilda.

  ‘We’re not on holiday, Kennedy. You got spray?’

  Matilda produced her can of pepper spray for his inspection. ‘Keep hold of it. I’ve got mine. Don’t be afraid to use it on that mongrel.’

  ‘That dog is probably fine – he’s doing what dogs do, protecting his territory.’

  ‘I’ll be protecting my territory if he comes anywhere near me,’ said Lambert, searching for a safe place to attempt climbing the fence. He found a small area, half his body width, which had the least amount of barbed wire. From the boot of his car he retrieved a roll of canvas which he threw over the fence. ‘Ready,’ he said.

  Matilda nodded and headed to the back of the compound.

  Lambert waited for the signal, the sound of blood drumming in his ears a backbeat to the crashing of the waves which sounded nearer than before.

  Seconds later the dog started barking and Lambert made his ascent. He leant his hand against the material, the barbs beneath close to the surface, and managed to swing himself over the fence. His left knee gave way as he landed and he struggled to contain a groan of anguish.

  He pushed himself up, grateful he could still hear the dog being entertained by Matilda in the distance. He peered through the small window at the front of the house, unable to see any light through the minuscule slits of the shutter. He tried the door and was surprised when it creaked open.

  He was surprised further by the man who stood behind the door, staring at him with a manic grin, holding a shotgun pointed directly at Lambert’s chest.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘You really are stupid,’ said the man, holding the gun steady.

  Lambert had been on the other end of a gun on enough occasions not to panic. ‘DCI Lambert. If you would like to reach into my inside left pocket, you’ll be able to see my warrant card.’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’ The man holding the shotgun had a deep Cornish accent. Lambert estimated he was in excess of six feet four. ‘And your friend teasing my dog? I’ve been watching your antics for the last hour on my security system.’

  ‘Impressive. What’s so important that you need such security?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘I ask the questions. What’s so important that you have to breach my perimeter?’

  ‘You’re Peter Boxall?’ asked Lambert, noticing a slight reaction from the man.

  ‘I’ll ask you again, what is it you want?’

  ‘We came to talk to you about your website.’

  Boxall moved out of the shadows towards him. ‘Step back,’ he said to Lambert, who retreated back to the fence. Boxall was dressed in combat gear, camouflage trousers and shirt and what looked like army-issued boots. He kept the gun pointed at Lambert and whistled.

  Lambert’s pulse quickened as the dog approached, appearing within seconds at his master’s side. Lambert dropped his left hand, ready to reach for his spray as the dog sat down, its gaze as steady as Boxall’s arm which still held the shotgun.

  ‘Call your colleague,’ said Boxall.

  Lambert paused, assessing the best course of action.

  The man lowered the gun and aimed it at Lambert’s knee. ‘Call her or walk with a limp for the rest of your life.’

  The dog tilted his head as the man spoke, as if querying the instruction. Despite the situation, Lambert had to stifle a laugh. He was sure the man was bluffing, and wasn’t about to jeopardise Matilda.

  The man flicked off the safety on the shotgun. ‘Last chance,’ he said.

  ‘I’m here,’ came a voice from the front gate.

  Lambert kept his gaze on the man he believed to be Peter Boxall, and the dog sitting obediently by his side.

  Boxall didn’t move. He kept the gun pointed at Lambert’s chest. ‘And you are?’

  ‘DS Matilda Kennedy.’

  Boxall sighed, as if the fight had left him and he realised the trouble he was in. ‘You better come in, then. Catch,’ he said, throwing a set of keys at Lambert.

  Lambert caught the keys and thought about throwing them back at Boxall and attacking the man, the dog and shotgun convincing him otherwise for the time being. He unlocked the padlock on the steel gate, noticing the pepper spray in Matilda’s left hand. ‘Welcome back to work,’ he whispered to her, as she made her way through the entrance.

  To Lambert’s surprise, the dog wandered over to her, his tail wagging.

  �
��Lock it,’ said Boxall, pointing to Lambert. ‘You have ID?’ he asked Matilda.

  Matilda withdrew her warrant card and showed it to the man. It was unlikely he could see the details in the relative darkness but he seemed satisfied with the glint of metal from Matilda’s shield.

  ‘And his?’

  ‘Inside pocket,’ said Lambert.

  Matilda reached in and displayed the warrant card to Boxall.

  ‘I guess I’m in a whole shit-heap of trouble,’ said Boxall, lowering and opening the barrel of the gun. He turned it around, showing that the two barrels were filled in. ‘Decommissioned. I keep it for protection. It’s a remote place for a man alone.’

  Lambert felt himself relax. ‘Can we come in and talk?’ he said.

  The man nodded. ‘I’m Peter Boxall, by the way, though you obviously know that. This is Stevie,’ he said, stroking the dog on the head.

  Stevie wagged his tail, his ears pushing back as the man scratched his head. ‘You don’t have to worry about him. Once you’re in, you’re fine. You coming in?’

  Lambert nodded and followed the man into the house, keeping his distance. The dog ran between the three of them, seemingly excited to have guests. Inside, Boxall switched on a light, revealing an area which looked like a makeshift garage. The floor was tarmacked, the air heavy with the smell of petrol and oil.

  ‘You live here?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Living quarters out back. I do some part time work as a mechanic. Not a great call for it around here. Get you anything?’ said Boxall, opening a decrepit fridge, and pulling out a bottle of lager.

  ‘Not for us,’ said Lambert, noticing the man’s hand was shaking. ‘Take a seat, Mr Boxall,’ he continued, pointing to a small desk and chair.

  Boxall sat behind the desk, every inch of which was covered with papers and various car-parts. Boxall was older than Lambert had first thought, his face sprinkled with numerous liver spots, his tired eyes sunk deep into his face. ‘This is about the site, you say?’