by Matt Brolly
‘He was less experienced then, probably fuelled by adrenalin and rushed the job,’ said Bradbury.
May agreed. It was normally the pattern with the serials. The first kill rushed, as if the killer had to get it out of their system, the subsequent killings becoming more sophisticated as the killer became more practised. There was also the opinion of the handwriting expert to consider. ‘Lana, what do we know about Clive Hale?’
As DC Lana Williams stood, May noticed Bradbury roll his eyes. ‘Hale was nineteen, and unemployed. He’d been in the care system most of his life. No immediate family, no convictions. He attended a local Presbyterian church in Clevedon on occasions but the investigating team at the time discovered that he hadn’t been going there for months.’ Lana’s delivery was succinct and confident.
‘What can we glean from this?’ May asked the team in general, nodding at Lana to sit down.
‘Looking at the subsequent victims, and the latest victim, a common theme is the lonely male and a certain religious affiliation,’ said Bradbury.
‘That is a very tentative link,’ said DC Stuart Welling. Welling was the oldest member of the team. Forever doomed to remain a DC, Welling carried a permanent chip on his shoulder. His role within the team seemed to be to question everyone else’s decision making. It was because of this that May had included him on her task force.
‘Why’s that, Stuart?’ she asked.
Welling frowned, and remained sitting. ‘For one, I wouldn’t agree that Terrence Haydon was a loner exactly. He lived alone but had a good job, and flat, and had some social interaction with his colleagues. The previous victim…’ May caught the slight reddening of Welling’s cheeks as he checked his notes. ‘Billy Nolan. Very socially active and a student at University. As for the religious aspect, that’s a lazy generalisation. Some of the victims went to church, many of different denominations, and the killer carves Latin onto them. That in itself doesn’t prove a religious aspect to the killings.’
Bradbury turned his head so he could see his colleague. His elbows were held out wide, his chest thrust forward. ‘It was only an observation,’ he said.
Welling’s eyes widened. He scratched his jaw as if in contemplation. ‘A poor one.’
Bradbury sighed and returned his focus to May.
‘Victim two,’ said May.
‘Proves the point,’ said Welling.
May stood with her arms by her sides and shifted her stance as she waited for Welling to speak.
Welling finally took the hint. ‘Graham Jackett. Local vet.’
‘Unmarried,’ said Bradbury.
‘Yes, but socially active. Killed three months after Hale. Like Hale, he was found in his home. This time a semi-detached property in Nailsea.’
‘Religious affiliation?’ asked May.
Welling sighed. ‘He attended the local Anglican church but I can’t see the relevance. The work on the body is much smoother this time. It almost becomes a template for the subsequent murders. The removal of the eyes is pristine.’
‘Pristine?’ said Bradbury.
Welling shifted in his seat. ‘No trace of jelly was left at the scene,’ said Welling, to general amusement. ‘The carving on the body was much neater. He took his time on this one.’
They went through each victim one by one until they reached David Welsh, the victim prior to Billy Nolan. ‘Twenty-eight year old welder,’ said Welling.
‘Lived alone, went to church,’ added Bradbury.
‘Means nothing. Then we reach the popular student, Billy Nolan,’ said Welling.
‘And then, eighteen years later, Terrence Haydon,’ said May. They had decided to stick to his original surname for the investigation. She began writing on the whiteboard. ‘So what we know? Prior to the thirty-eight year old Haydon, each former victim was a white male aged twenty to thirty. They all lived alone except the ninth victim, Billy Nolan.’
‘Technically, he did live alone. He had his own room in halls,’ said Bradbury.
‘Okay. White, male, twenty to thirty, lived alone. Anything else?’
‘I still think the religious aspect is important. Of the nine victims, we know six attended church,’ said Bradbury. ‘With Haydon, that makes seven out of ten.’
Everyone in the room turned to look at Welling. ‘I’m not saying it isn’t relevant but at the moment it isn’t a definite link.’
May agreed with both of them. ‘We need to look closer at the victims. There has to be something more than gender and age which links them. Lana, start looking at those victims who didn’t have a religious background. See if there was any oversight here. Maybe it was an area not considered by the investigative teams. Everyone else, I want to know everything about each of the victims. Go back to the start, go through the case notes and search for anything which links the victims. Bradbury, we’ve enough resources here for this. Assign a team to each victim starting with Hale. Let’s see what we have by nine a.m. tomorrow.’
May returned to her office and shut the door. She paced the room, recounting the details of the team meeting. She played with the files on her desk, opened then shut the blinds. She needed to calm down. They were close to something. There was already a tentative link between the victims, and it would only take one thing, one small link she was confident she would be able to connect everything. Despite Welling’s protestations, she thought the religious aspect was relevant and hoped the investigative teams would find something of value in their research.
She sat and tried to banish the negative thought that the one small link would never be discovered, that they would always remain just out of reach.
Bradbury called through on the internal phone line. ‘I’ve managed to track down the SIO on the former cases, Julian Hastings. He wants to meet at seven a.m. tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ said May, hanging up. The retired Chief Superintendent had taken over as SIO from the Jackett case onwards. She could only imagine his frustration as he’d investigated victim after victim with no result. She bounced up and down on her chair, trying to control the adrenalin leaking into her system. From her office drawer, she took out her Kindle and downloaded a copy of Hastings’ last novel, Blood Kill, and began reading.
Chapter 7
Klatzky had already started drinking. Lambert found him sitting with a giggling group of students, swigging from a pint of lager. The students were all girls. In their late teens, early twenties, they were strikingly beautiful, particularly in comparison to the rough and jaded figure of Klatzky. Unbelievably, they were enjoying his company. One of their number, a tall slender girl, laughed every time Klatzky opened his mouth, stroking her dark hair absentmindedly with her left hand. Klatzky had always been successful with women at University but Lambert was surprised that these women would have anything to do with him now.
‘Mikey, come and join us,’ shouted Klatzky, on seeing Lambert.
The young women stared at Lambert as he approached. A small blonde girl with an obvious fake tan and a face lined with over-enthusiastic make-up echoed Klatzky’s words. ‘Yes, Mikey, come and join us,’ she said, provoking good-natured laughter from the others. It was clear the whole group had been drinking for some time.
‘Simon, can I have a word?’ said Lambert, ignoring the young woman’s request.
‘Sure, sure,’ said Klatzky getting to his feet. ‘Here, girls, get another round in.’ Klatzky placed a twenty pound note on the table which was snapped up by the dark-haired girl.
Lambert led Klatzky outside. He decided not to reprimand him about the drinking. ‘I’m thinking of staying for a couple of nights,’ he said.
‘Fantastic,’ said Klatzky. ‘Where do you have in mind?’
‘Listen, Si, I don’t think this is going to work, you being here.’
‘Don’t mind me, Mikey. I’ll keep out of your way. One city is much the same as another.’
It was pointless arguing. ‘Fine, there’s a Marriott at the bottom of the hill. I’ll book us in separate rooms for
the night. Then we can discuss the situation tomorrow. I’ll ring you later with the room number.’
‘Great. Listen, Mikey,’ Klatzky hesitated.
Lambert sighed and took his wallet from his trouser pocket and handed Klatzky eighty pounds. ‘Don’t let those girls screw you over, Simon. And for God’s sake get something to eat.’
‘Yes, mum,’ said Klatzky, returning inside.
Following his meeting with May, Lambert decided he would continue with his own investigation for the time being. He didn’t want to impede her in any way, but there were questions he was impatient to have answered. It was too coincidental that Billy Nolan and Terrence Haydon had lived one floor apart at University. There was a connection to be discovered between the two, however unlikely that sounded at the moment. Since joining the force, he’d always resisted the temptation to revisit the Souljacker case. He’d understood that he’d been too emotionally involved. Now it was unavoidable. Klatzky had forced his hand. Lambert decided to start where he would normally start: the victim’s closest relation.
He hailed an approaching taxi and ordered the driver to take him to a small suburb of Bristol called Whitchurch where Terrence Haydon’s mother, Sandra Vernon, lived.
Twenty minutes later, he reached his destination. Whitchurch was a grey area, populated by uninspired near-identical houses with ashen facades and dull brown-red tiled roofs. Sandra Vernon lived opposite a crumbling supermarket in a small terraced house. The front of the house was well maintained with UPVC windows. A stone pathway led through a neatly mowed front garden to the front door. Lambert waited for a beat and rang the doorbell.
A small plump woman with large circular rimmed spectacles answered. The smell of cinnamon and burnt toast drifted from behind her. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ she inquired, in a high-pitched Welsh accent.
Lambert told the woman that he was a friend of Terrence who had recently heard the terrible news and had come to pay his condolences. The rotund woman looked him up and down for an uncomfortable amount of time before inviting him in.
Lambert surveyed the living room whilst Sandra Vernon made tea in the kitchen. The room was sparsely decorated with white walls and a couple of mass market reproduction paintings in cheap frames on the wall. A small flat screen television sat beneath one of the rectangular PVC windows. A simple wooden crucifix hung above the fireplace. Beneath it, taking pride of place on the mantelpiece, was a picture of Sandra Vernon and her son on his graduation day.
‘He was a good boy,’ said Sandra Vernon, returning with a tray.
Lambert couldn’t detect any emotion in the woman, her face blank. ‘He was, here let me take that for you.’ Lambert took the tray from the woman’s unsteady hands.
‘What did you say your name was again?’ she said, the lilt of her accent deeper now.
‘Michael Lambert. I lived on the floor below Terrence in his final year at University. We were not the best of friends but I knew him.’
Sandra Vernon poured him a cup of tea.
‘How are you coping, Mrs Vernon?’ asked Lambert, sipping the weak tea.
‘Day by day, Mr Lambert, but it is Miss Vernon. The church is a great help to me as you can imagine.’
‘Of course. Terrence was always very religious at University,’ said Lambert, unsure if he was saying the right thing.
‘He had a strong relationship with God. For that he will be rewarded.’
‘I didn’t realise his home was in Bristol whilst he was at University. My parents lived in London. To be fair, I couldn’t wait to get away from them,’ said Lambert. He ignored the comment about God. Tension was always high when religion was involved. Experience told him it was best to steer clear unless the conversation was necessary. Like Klatzky, he was a lapsed Catholic. Apart from the odd occasion, wedding, baptism, or funeral, he hadn’t attended church since he was a teenager.
Vernon drank her tea, studying him, her eyes lifeless behind the covering of her spectacles. ‘I always was close to Terrence. I decided to stay near to him when he moved to University. We lived in Wales before then.’
Lambert had never heard of a parent moving with their child to University. Though not inconceivable, it suggested an over-familiar relationship between parent and child. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen Terrence. Did he ever marry?’
Vernon laughed. ‘No, no.’
‘Was he seeing anyone?’
‘As I said, Mr Lambert, he had a strong relationship with God. He had no time for such nonsense. God was all he needed.’ Sandra Vernon looked away as she said the last words, as if threatened by Lambert’s suggestion.
‘What was that church he was with? It was one of those really evangelical ones wasn’t it?’
‘It’s called Gracelife. It is a proper church, with true believers and proper morals. It’s one of the reasons I moved here in the first place.’
‘Of course, sorry I don’t know much about these things.’ With the conversation failing, Lambert knew he had a decision to make. Either leave things as they were, or push the woman further. She had recently suffered a great loss, and for that he was sympathetic, but he wasn’t blind to the tone she was using. She had taken a clear disliking to him, speaking down to him as if he was a child.
‘One thing that did confuse me, Miss Vernon. I see that Terrence had changed his name to Vernon. We’d known him as Terrence Haydon at University.’
‘That was his father’s name.’ Sandra Vernon sat on the edge of her seat. Her face had reddened and she glared at Lambert, her small eyes magnified by her oversized spectacles.
Lambert didn’t mind the woman’s discomfort. He pushed further. ‘Ah yes, I remember Terrence mentioning him. Is his father not around any more?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘He was no father,’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘Did Terrence ever see him?’
‘He ceased being his father many years ago,’ said Vernon. Her voice came out as a screech as the colour in her cheeks deepened, her eyes narrowing once more.
Lambert poured himself some more tea. He tipped the clear brown liquid into Sandra Vernon’s cup. ‘Oh. I hadn’t realised. I’m sure I remember Terrence mentioning him. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to understand.’ Lambert kept his voice low and steady, focusing all his attention onto the flustered woman.
Vernon leant back in her chair. ‘His daddy was an evil man, Godless. Left us when Terrence was a child. Terrence never forgave him. It was his decision. He waited until he left University, but he didn’t want that man’s name sullying him any more.’
Vernon was over-protesting. ‘Despicable. Is he aware that Terrence has gone to a better place? I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but I could inform him if you had an address.’
The woman let out a small sound which sounded like a wounded animal. Her facial muscles tensed and Lambert watched, bemused, as her upper lip rose revealing the redness of her gums. ‘I don’t have his address. Who cares if he knows? He was nothing to Terrence, to us.’ she snarled.
Lambert stood. ‘No, you’re completely right. I’m really sorry to bother you. I should go. I was hoping to visit his church before I left for London. Thank you for the tea.’ He had what he’d wanted. Any sympathy he’d had for the woman had faded. He sensed the hatred in the woman, knew it wasn’t simply a reaction to her son’s death. It resonated within her, and he sighed with relief when he was out of the claustrophobic confines of her house. He had to speak to Terrence’s father, but first he had to see his church.
A white painted building, the result of two terraced houses knocked together, the church had a small sign nailed to the side wall announcing the occupants as Gracelife, Bristol. Minister, Neil Landsdale.
An elderly woman wrapped in a pink-check clothed apron opened the front door. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to see the minister,’ said Lambert.
The woman glared at him as if he’d said something incomprehensible. ‘Minister?’
&
nbsp; ‘Neil Landsdale.’
‘I’m just the cleaner,’ said the woman. ‘You can come in and check the offices if you want. There are some people moving about up there.’ She walked back inside, leaving the door open.
Apart from a giant wooden crucifix hanging from the far wall, little else suggested the interior was that of a church. It was more like a small dance studio. Stacks of plastic chairs and folded tables surrounded a polished wooden floor. Dull brown walls propped up the low ceiling.
‘Up there,’ said the cleaner, pointing to a panelled door which led to a flight of stairs.
Lambert heard talking as he moved up the dark staircase. One male, one female voice. He reached the office door and knocked. The voices stopped and the door was opened by a smiling woman, wearing a long-sleeved dress, patterned with large garish flowers, ‘Mr Lambert by any chance?’ she said, her face twitching.
Sandra Vernon had obviously called ahead. He kept his tone light. ‘Yes, you have me at a disadvantage, Miss…’
The woman kept the painted smile on her face but didn’t invite him to enter.
‘May I speak to Neil Landsdale?’ asked Lambert, when she didn’t answer.
‘I’m afraid he’s awfully busy at the moment,’ said the woman, her light voice lined with the trace of a West Country accent. ‘Would it be possible to come back later?’
Lambert stiffened. ‘Not really, I’m afraid. I’m only in Bristol for the day. It will only take a few minutes of his time.’ Lambert pictured the minister sitting at a desk behind the door. He had no idea why the man was avoiding him, but one thing was clear, he would not be leaving without first speaking to the minister.
‘Please wait here,’ said the woman, shutting the door behind her.
Lambert placed his ear to the door, but couldn’t hear the muffled conversation. He stepped back as the door opened.
‘Mr Landsdale will see you now,’ said the woman.
Two chrome-framed desks sat side by side in the office, each with an old box-style computer monitor on them. A grey-haired man stood in front of one of the desks. His hair fell to his shoulder, a week’s growth of stubble protruding from his face. His smile was as prominent and false as his colleague’s. ‘Mr Lambert, pleased to meet you. I am the minister of our humble little church. You can call me Neil.’
