by Matt Brolly
Lambert paused. It was pointless getting embroiled in an argument with the man. ‘Explain it to me.’
‘Change of identity and movement to a secure prison. Some place they can’t track me.’
‘They?’ said Lambert.
‘The Manor, of course.’
They adjourned as Tillman made arrangements for Barnes’ demands.
Lambert sat with Matilda in the canteen, restless. ‘How are we doing at Waverley Manor?’ he asked.
‘Body count is up to forty-three now. All children.’
It was as Lambert had expected but hearing it out loud made him recoil. All he could do now was to find some justice for them, however meaningless that sounded.
‘There’s more, I’m afraid,’ said Matilda.
Lambert exhaled, unsure if he could take any more information. As he looked at Matilda he realised he hadn’t considered the burn scars on her face for some time and the thought gave him some fragile comfort. ‘The other room?’
‘Yes. The bodies there… Jesus, sir.’ Matilda shook her head, her face whitening. ‘There were babies, sir. There were fucking pregnant girls.’
Lambert felt his eyes watering. He was continually surprised by the extent of human deprivation but this was a new one, even to him.
‘Come on, Sergeant. Let’s go get this bastard.’
* * *
Barnes sat back as far as his chains would allow him, trying to give off an air of nonchalance as Tillman read him the agreement. ‘I guess that will suffice,’ he said, once Tillman had finished.
‘Begin then, before we change our mind,’ said Tillman.
‘Gladly, though you’ll never understand.’
Lambert knew he would never forget the minutes that followed. Barnes explained the Manor was an organisation decades old. ‘Waverley Manor is just one of many locations,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask me about the others, because I don’t know. It’s safer that way, you understand,’ he said, as if somehow the three of them were complicit.
‘I don’t understand anything you are saying, Barnes,’ said Lambert.
‘You wouldn’t. None of you would. It takes someone with a greater appreciation of the world to understand what we achieved there. Someone more evolved.’
Lambert felt nauseous. His mind wandered back to the previous day in the hospital and regretted not taking the gun and emptying every single round of it into Barnes’ head. ‘Where did you find the children?’ asked Lambert, sickened by the question.
‘I don’t need to tell you about missing children, Lambert. The key, obviously, is to search the correct areas. Find places where a lost child means nothing. We’ve been doing this for years, we’re masters.’
‘You’re fucking monsters,’ said Matilda.
‘Calm your bitch down, Tillman,’ said Barnes, smirking.
Lambert was impressed by the restraint shown by Tillman. ‘Let’s everyone calm down,’ he said. ‘How did you become aligned with the Manor?’
‘A case I worked on early on in CID. Theo Barnes, no relation. Our department were investigating him as a suspect for child abduction. I eventually earned his trust and after a few years I was initiated into the Manor.’
Barnes began reeling off a number of names, none of which Lambert recognised. Barnes claimed they were senior members of the Manor, though said there was no such thing as a hierarchy.
‘What about Caroline Jardine?’ asked Lambert.
‘Ah, Mrs Jardine. We should have eliminated her along with Newlyn. Should have thrown in Colville for good measure but we feared the attention. One suicide was conceivable. More than one death, too suspicious.’
‘So why now?’
‘I knew she was on to me.’
‘So you arranged for Trevor Hodge to murder her?’
‘And wasn’t that a fuck up, Lambert, eh?’ said Barnes, as if the situation was one big joke. ‘That was my fault. I knew of Hodge from old. We’d used him on many occasions. He’s surprisingly effective at what he does. Setting fires, explosions and what have you. Apparently, though, he’s not effective at killing people.’
‘You need to elaborate, Barnes.’
‘I’ll elaborate. He was supposed to start a fire at the house. Make it look like an accident whilst making sure the Jardines died. He promised he was up to it but obviously he wasn’t. I guess his conscience got to him.’
‘So he wasn’t hired to kidnap the Jardines?’
‘Nope.’
‘So you killed him?’
‘Me?’ said Barnes, incredulous.
‘No, you wouldn’t get your hands dirty would you, Barnes?’
Barnes squirmed in his seat, his mouth forming into a cruel grimace.
‘But you ordered it, didn’t you? He knew too much,’ said Lambert, revelling in the man’s discomfort.
Barnes’ lips twitched but he didn’t answer.
‘What about Berry and Turner, the bodies found at the Jardine house?’ said Lambert, changing tact.
‘Beats me. I didn’t know anything about his suicide fetish. My guess is he replaced the bodies and hoped you and I would be fooled by the switch. There’s a lesson for us all there, Lambert. Be careful who you hire.’
Chapter Fifty-Six
It had started in a restaurant and it ended in one. Michael Lambert sat opposite Sarah May, a sense of melancholy running through him as they discussed their separation. Sarah smiled at him with that lopsided grin which he’d been so taken with from the moment he first saw it. For a second he wanted to backtrack, but that was the coward’s way. They’d come to an agreement and Lambert knew deep down it was the correct decision.
It was two weeks since Barnes’ arrest. A total of fifty-one bodies had now been discovered at Waverley Manor. It was national news and Lambert was doing his best to stay out of the spotlight, despite Mia Helmer’s stream of articles accusing him of botching the investigation.
Tillman was happy to take all the plaudits for the discovery at Waverley Manor, whilst Matilda was coordinating the identification of all those lost children, and the coroner was considering the deaths of Berry and Turner. By all accounts it was likely Trevor Hodge would be tried posthumously for their murders.
Lambert had his own role. Barnes had given them a list of ten senior members of the Manor and Lambert had already made seven arrests. Along with Sinnott, Barnes had been placed in a secure unit with a brand new ID. He was in solitary confinement and would not mingle with the general prison populace for some months. Despite his cooperation in apprehending the others responsible, he would be spending the rest of his life behind bars.
‘I suppose I should give you this back,’ said Sarah, handing him a set of keys.
Lambert glanced downwards as he accepted the key ring, remembering a happier time when she’d given him a set of keys to her flat in Bristol. The agreement had been mutual. However much he tried to deny it, Lambert had not recovered from his split with Sophie. They’d tried and failed, and in the end they both concluded the relationship had run its course.
‘You can always speak to me,’ said Sarah, getting to her feet.
They embraced and for the second time in minutes Lambert almost backtracked.
‘Bye, Michael,’ said Sarah, kissing him on the cheek.
Lambert watched her leave the coffee shop, for once dumbstruck.
* * *
Lambert met up with Tillman back at the NCA headquarters. ‘There could be a promotion in this for you,’ said Tillman. He was dressed in black, like Lambert. He appeared to have lost some weight and was clearly enjoying his time in the media spotlight. Lambert was sure Anti-Corruption’s decision to drop its ongoing investigation into him had its part to play, even though he wasn’t convinced it would be the last time either of them heard from the section.
‘What, and be a desk jockey like you?’ said Lambert.
‘One step at a time, Lambert. Where are we on the list?’
‘We’re trying to track down William Spencer and Phillip Tan.
It looks like news of the arrests has spread and they’ve absconded. We’ve notified the airports and docks, their details are with Interpol. Once we get them, we’re finished with the list supplied by Barnes. Then the real work will begin.’
Interrogations had already started on the detainees. Each of the eight men were of high profile in their chosen field. Sinnott and Barnes were thankfully the only policemen. Lambert would spend months putting together a case against those arrested. Some were already twitching to make deals, and as Barnes had suggested there had been hints of other locations. Lambert had already spoken to Tillman about passing the case onto another officer but he wouldn’t hear of it.
‘It’s a terrible case, Michael, but I’m glad you’re at the helm.’
‘Steady, sir, I thought that almost sounded like a compliment.’
* * *
They met Matilda in the car park and she drove them to the funeral. They’d kept news of the service as quiet as possible, but a large congregation had come to pay their respects to Marcus Jardine.
Lambert sat at the back of the church as various family and friends spoke about Marcus and his impact on their lives. Lambert had never met him, but was moved by the offered words. He bowed his head at the end of the service as Caroline retreated down the aisle of the church, accompanied by her father, ravaged by pain and tears.
Outside he walked with Tillman and Matilda, following the congregation along the pebble-dashed pathway to the spot where Marcus was to be buried.
The weather held as Caroline watched her husband lowered into the ground. Lambert looked away as she tried to control her grief, only for it to overwhelm her as she sprinkled soil onto the coffin and collapsed into the arms of her parents.
* * *
Caroline had invited the three of them to a small gathering back at her parents’ house. Lambert avoided the assembled group as best he could, standing on the edges of the main room. He sipped at a glass of warm red wine, surveying the guests whilst Tillman and Matilda made an attempt to mingle.
To Lambert’s right, a sideboard laden with family photos caught his attention. In particular a picture of Caroline Jardine holding Teresa as a baby, Marcus Jardine with his arm round her, smiling at the new addition to the family.
‘Thank you for coming, Michael,’ said Caroline, appearing at his side.
Lambert was always lost for words in such situations and offered a feeble smile instead. He’d got to know Caroline well over the last couple of weeks. Despite her ordeal and ongoing grief, she’d been keen to assist him with her knowledge of the Manor. He’d been present for an emotional reunion with DS Florence Colville, where he’d felt like an intruder as they both poured out their grief for Caroline’s lost husband and their late colleague, Alistair Newlyn.
‘How’s little Teresa?’ he asked, his eyes moving to a second picture of an older Teresa possibly taking her first steps.
Caroline smiled, her eyes still red. ‘She’s doing well. As you can imagine, it’s a very difficult concept for her to grasp that she’ll never see her Daddy again.’
‘Sorry, ridiculous question,’ said Lambert, crestfallen at having made such an insensitive comment.
‘Michael, it’s OK. I’m being serious. I’m getting some help and we’re gradually going to introduce her to the idea. But I’ll make sure she never forgets him.’
Lambert didn’t know how to respond. ‘I promise I’ll do everything to put away all those responsible,’ he said, fearing his words were inappropriate for the situation.
Caroline nodded and smiled again, though Lambert sensed she was on the verge of tears. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, retreating into the throng of family and well-wishers.
Lambert waited for an acceptable time before making his excuses and leaving. He made some calls as he drove away from the wake, agreeing to meet with one of his contacts later that evening. He had somewhere else to be now. He drove on autopilot, thorough streets he’d travelled down hundreds of times before. He passed Chloe’s old pre-school, picturing her as a two-year-old full of life, and tried his best to cherish the memory, rather than dwell on what was to come later for her. Across the mini roundabout and onto the main road, a right at the cinema, his mind elsewhere as the car almost drove itself, until he was back in the his old street, parking the car, and for once not dawdling inside like some deranged stalker.
He didn’t know if they were home, and it didn’t matter for the time being. He clicked the car shut and rushed across the road to his old front door. He pressed the doorbell without hesitation and welcomed the butterflies as he heard footsteps.
The door opened and Sophie stood gazing at him. In her arms she held Chloe’s sister, Jane, who gave him a quizzical look as if she remembered the last time they’d met.
‘Michael,’ said Sophie, as if unsure it was really him. As always, she saw right through him. He understood she knew why he was there. He watched for a sign as she analysed him, was relieved when her eyes widened and her face broke out into a smile.
‘You better come in then,’ she said.
Epilogue
The men stared at one another. The first, a brutish man who looked like a wall of muscle, went to speak, but the second man cut him off. ‘No names,’ he said, pouring sugar into the boiling water before stirring.
The first man nodded and picked the pan off the stove. The pan was nearly a metre high and was full to the brim but he carried it with such ease it appeared empty.
‘This way,’ said the second man, heading down the corridor.
The corridor was known as the Beast ward. It was reserved for those prisoners unable to be part of the general populace, occasionally because they were a risk to the inmates, but usually because they were at risk from their fellow prisoners. It was where the rapists and child molesters lived and word had spread a particularly nasty specimen had been added recently.
The gates, which were usually locked shut, had been mysteriously left open, and both men were able to walk through to the Beast ward with no difficulty. They walked at an even, purposeful pace. Both had been recruited through various secret channels. Promises had been made about reduced sentences but after what they’d heard both men would have gone through with the job even without such motivation.
A prison guard was waiting around the next corner. He stood outside one of the Beast rooms. He was young, and looked nervous, as if he thought the pan of boiling water and sugar was for him.
‘Napalm,’ said the wall of muscle to the guard. Napalm was the nickname given to the substance in the pan.
The second man had only seen a napalm attack once. Sugar was added to the boiling water as it made the burning liquid stick to the skin. The napalm attack he’d witnessed, a revenge gang attack, still appeared in his nightmares. He could hear the screams of the victim; could smell the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh. Despite that, he didn’t hesitate as the guard unlocked the door.
The man was lying on a bed which made it easier. The wall of muscle ran towards the figure as the second man gave him the message. ‘Barnes?’ he asked.
The man sat bolt upright in bed, clearly understanding the situation. He was supposed to be there under an alias and hearing his name out loud had clearly shook him. ‘What is this?’ he said, trying to intone a sense of authority into his words.
‘Tillman and Lambert say hello,’ said the second prisoner, as the wall of muscle deposited the message over the top of his head.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Matt Brolly, 2017
The moral right of Matt Brolly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechan
ical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781911420439
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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