Dead Eyed

by Matt Brolly

  ‘Suspected suicide. The body was discovered by a friend of his, Thomas Langtree.’

  Lambert pictured the scene. For some reason, he imagined Haydon in a warm bath, blood pouring from sliced wrists. The young Thomas Langtree standing motionless beside him, gazing at the red water and his lifeless friend, a glass of cider in his hand. He shut his eyes. ‘Poor guy,’ he said.

  ‘The thing is,’ continued Nielson, ‘you were one of the last people to see Mr Haydon alive.’

  Lambert drank the black coffee and willed himself to sober up. He’d told Roddy to wait for him at the bar and accompanied Nielson back to the station. He sat in an interview room, the two uniformed officers hovering about him.

  He’d enjoyed meeting Roger Haydon, despite the circumstances. Life had not treated the man well but the odd relationship he’d struck up with Thomas Langtree seemed to be working.

  ‘I’m going to record this,’ said Nielson, entering the room, followed by a young woman he introduced as DC Shah.

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Lambert.

  Nielson went through the preliminaries, explaining Lambert’s rights, announcing who was present. He even asked Lambert if he wanted a lawyer. It was a bit unusual. Lambert was still an officer despite his leave of absence. Technically, Nielson should have informed Tillman that he was questioning Lambert. Despite Lambert’s urge to make life difficult for Nielson, he decided not to mention it for the time being.

  ‘As you’ve been informed, Mr Lambert, Roger Haydon was found dead today in his home in Weston-super-Mare.’

  ‘A bit outside your jurisdiction,’ said Lambert, bristling at Nielson’s manner.

  ‘I’m assisting my colleague, Detective Inspector Sarah May from Bristol’s MIT.’

  ‘That’s okay then.’

  ‘According to Mr Haydon’s housemate,’ Nielson shuffled his notes, ‘Thomas Langtree, you were one of the last people to see Roger Haydon alive.’

  Lambert sighed. He had informed Sarah May about the meeting, which had led to one of the best lines of inquiry so far on the Souljacker case. Nielson would have to work harder if he wanted a direct answer from him.

  Thick grooves appeared in the flesh of Nielson’s forehead as he concentrated. ‘What can you tell me about the last time you saw Mr Haydon?’ he said eventually.

  ‘We had a nice chat.’

  ‘And what was the purpose of your visit?’

  ‘I went to pay my condolences. I’m sure you’re aware, I knew his son Terrence. We were at University together.’

  ‘This is Terrence Haydon who was murdered two weeks ago?’

  ‘The very same,’ said Lambert.

  ‘How did you find Mr Haydon? Roger Haydon that is.’

  ‘It was the first time I’d met him so I can’t tell if he was acting out of the ordinary, if that’s what you’re asking. Though I did take into account that his son had recently died and that it was early morning and he was already drunk. As was his friend.’

  ‘Mr Langtree?’

  ‘Yes, Thomas.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘As I said, I wanted to pass on my condolences.’

  ‘The thing is, Mr Lambert, this is not the picture Thomas Langtree has painted of your visit.’

  ‘Oh no?’

  ‘No. Mr Langtree has described it as somewhat of an interrogation.’

  Lambert shrugged again.

  ‘Mr Langtree said you questioned Mr Haydon over his past, his relationship with his son.’

  ‘As I said, we talked about the past. I’m sure DI May informed you of the lead I discovered from talking to the man.’

  Nielson shuffled in his seat. ‘Let’s forget for a moment that you’re not working on the case. Langtree said you questioned Haydon about his relationship with his ex-wife as well?’

  ‘I’d met Terrence’s mother the day before.’

  ‘To pay your condolences, I presume?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Mr Langtree also said he found you looking through his private belongings?’

  ‘A misunderstanding.’

  ‘Misunderstanding?’ repeated Nielson.

  ‘Yes. I went to use the bathroom and lost my way.’

  ‘It seems the whole situation became a bit too much for Mr Haydon, according to Mr Langtree. Your visit…’ Nielson shuffled his notes again. He scanned the document in front of him until he found the words. ‘Upset Mr Haydon. He started drinking even more heavily after your visit.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry if that happened,’ said Lambert. ‘And I’m sorry for Mr Langtree’s loss, but I don’t have anything to add to the matter.’

  ‘A man’s dead, Lambert.’

  Lambert presumed he was coming across as being cold and indifferent. There was no way he could be implicated in Haydon’s suicide, and it had been pointless dragging him into the station. It was possible his conversation with Roger Haydon had triggered something in the old man. He was a chronic alcoholic, and his estranged son had recently been murdered. Perhaps it had been wrong of him to push him so much.

  ‘I understand that,’ he said, trying to soften his tone. ‘As I said I’m truly sorry Mr Haydon took his life but I don’t know what else I can offer you. I thought we had parted on reasonably amicable terms.’

  Nielson turned over the sheets of papers in front of him as if he was about to say something confidential. The room went silent except for the low hum of the recorder. ‘Who did you speak to about Roger Haydon after leaving his premises?’

  Lambert looked at Shah, wondering if he was missing something. She looked back at him, nonplussed. ‘Like I stated, DI Sarah May.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ asked Nielson, his tone less accusatory than before.

  Lambert placed his hands on the table. ‘What’s this about?’

  Nielson scratched his chest. ‘Someone else paid Roger Haydon a visit later the same day you met him. As yet unidentified.’

  Lambert noticed that Nielson and Shah had leant forward, as if he had some miraculous answer for them. He’d only told May about the incident, but he knew where this was going. ‘I didn’t tell Simon if that’s what you think. You’re heading down the wrong path if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Nielson leant back in his chair. ‘Let us decide what’s the right line of enquiry, Lambert. When did you last see Klatzky?’

  Lambert thought about the way Lambert had disappeared when Nielson had appeared in the bar. He wasn’t ready to give his friend in quite yet. ‘Not since Bristol.’

  Nielson lifted his hands into the air. ‘So you came back to London without him?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Lambert understood the implication. That Klatzky could have stayed on, and paid Haydon a visit.

  ‘This is a friendly warning,’ said Nielson, his voice heavy. ‘Whatever private investigation you’re running into the murder of Terrence Haydon I need it to stop. You’ve seen what your meddling has caused. You’re out of the game now. I will not accept any more interference. Have I made myself clear?’

  Lambert considered telling the man where to go but held his tongue. ‘Perfectly. May I go?’

  ‘Show Mr Lambert out, Shah.’

  Lambert was surprised to find Roddy still at the bar. It had been two hours since he’d left with Nielson. Roddy sat next to the pool table, slouched on a cushioned chair, a glass of red wine on the table in front of him. A group of three women stood by the pool table, occasionally glancing over at him.

  ‘Mikey,’ shouted Roddy on seeing Lambert, loud enough that the majority of the bar turned around.

  ‘You waited,’ said Lambert, sitting down next to his friend.

  ‘What you having?’

  ‘I’ve had enough. Think you have too. Does your wife know where you are?’

  ‘She keeps texting me,’ said Roddy in a slur. ‘I’ve told her I’m out. It doesn’t seem to be quite enough.’

  ‘Come on, we’ll get you a taxi.’

  ‘Simon came back.’
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  ‘Did he now?’ said Lambert.

  ‘He had an extended stay in the toilets. I think he may have been avoiding the police,’ said Roddy, laughing as if he’d said the most extraordinary joke. ‘He’s only gone and pulled though.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, one of that lot.’ Roddy pointed at the group of women by the pool table who were less than pleased with the attention. ‘He went home with her thirty minutes ago.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Lambert. He walked over to the women. Each of them folded their arms as he approached. Were they upset by Klatzky leaving with one of their friends, or had Roddy in his inebriated state done something to offend them? ‘Hi,’ he said, to general silence. ‘I know this is a bit weird but my friend Roddy over there said my other friend, Simon, has gone on with one of your friends.’

  ‘With Cheryl,’ said one of the three, a red-haired woman in her early forties.

  ‘Cheryl, right. I don’t suppose you know where they went?’

  ‘Don’t know, don’t care,’ said the woman, her pale face crinkling into a patchwork of lines as she spoke.

  Lambert looked at the other two for some support but received only blank stares.

  ‘Okay, thanks anyway.’

  ‘And you can tell your friend, Roddy is it?’ said the red-haired woman.

  ‘Roddy, yes.’

  ‘That he’s lucky that I haven’t called my boyfriend down here to teach him a lesson.’

  ‘Right. Look, I’m sorry if either of them have been rude. They’ve both had a lot to drink. It’s no excuse, I know, but they’re decent guys normally.’

  The red-haired woman’s face softened a little. Lambert handed her a card with his number on it. ‘Will you call me if you hear from your friend? I really need to speak to Simon.’

  The woman took the card and placed it in her handbag.

  ‘What have you been up to, Roddy?’ asked Lambert outside the pub. He had his arm around the man’s waist, straining to keep him steady so the taxis wouldn’t keep driving by.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I was only messing around. I can’t really remember anything now. It’s been good to see you. Perhaps we can see each other in the next decade sometime. What did the police want?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Offering you your job back?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Eventually a taxi pulled over. Lambert gave the driver forty pounds and managed to get a slurred address from Roddy. He called Klatzky as he walked home. The phone rang but Klatzky didn’t answer.

  Sophie was waiting for him by the front door, a suitcase by her side.

  ‘What’s that for?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said, softly.

  ‘One or two. I had some bad news.’ Lambert realised he still didn’t know how Haydon had committed suicide. The picture of him in his bath, wrists opened by a rusty razor was so vivid in his mind’s eye that he could swear it was a memory.

  ‘I’m going away for a few days. This place is a mad house.’

  ‘You don’t need to go. I’ll go,’ said Lambert.

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘Where are you going to be staying?’ asked Lambert. Once again he was surprised by his jealousy. He didn’t think she would tell him if she was staying with Taylor.

  ‘A hotel. I’ll text you.’

  He couldn’t tell if she was lying, didn’t know if he wanted her to tell the truth.

  ‘Tell me when he’s gone,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek, shutting the door.

  Lambert realised he was more disorientated by the drinking than he’d thought. It took him a minute to understand what she’d meant.

  He ran through the house. ‘Simon?’ he shouted. If he’d brought that woman home with him he’d drag them both outside, clothed or not, he thought, sprinting up the staircase, two steps at a time. He stopped as he entered the spare room and turned away. ‘Jesus, that’s enough to make me vomit,’ he said.

  Klatzky lay on the bed face down, stark naked. A branded bottle of vodka stood on the bedside table, a quarter of its contents missing. ‘What happened to your date?’

  Klatzky mumbled something inaudible.

  ‘We’re going to talk in the morning. Cover your hairy arse,’ said Lambert. He took Klatzky’s clothes to stop him making an early exit and switched off the light.

  He tried to sleep but his mind was too active. He brewed a pot of coffee and recalled everything that had happened since the day Klatzky had first shown him the photos. He considered calling May but thought it best to steer clear of Nielson’s radar for the time being. He wanted to find out the exact details of the suicide.

  He packed his bags and booked a train for Bristol in the morning. He needed to speak to Klatzky before leaving. He logged onto The System and accessed the Burnham file. The notes were thorough, as he would have expected from his former colleague. He scanned the file, enduring the images of the crime scene. The corpse with its eyelids sealed shut, a fine black thread woven intricately into the thin flesh of the man’s eyelids.

  Once he’d read through the whole report, he began again. He concentrated on each line, each witness report, on the notes from his former colleague and his team. He clicked on Burnham’s profile, scrolled through notes from his family, friends, work colleagues. And then he spotted a name he knew. He would need to make a detour before he went to Bristol.

  He shut off the computer and collapsed on the bed, as his vision began to fade. Flashes of orange and violet formed behind his eyes, a familiar dizziness overwhelming him and sending him to sleep.

  He snapped awake four hours later, fully refreshed. After showering and changing he packed a small holdall and walked into the spare room where Klatzky was sleeping.

  Lambert opened the curtains and window, a gust of fresh air filtering into the musty room. ‘Right, we’re going to talk,’ he told Klatzky, who had thankfully crawled beneath the covers since he’d last seen him.

  Klatzky rubbed his eyes. ‘Not now,’ he groaned.

  Lambert grabbed the man by the shoulders. ‘Yes now. You asked for my help in the beginning and now you need to come up with some answers. There’s some people who want to speak to you.’

  Klatzky sat up in bed, pulling the duvet over his shoulders until only his face showed. The late nights were not doing him any favours. His face was drawn. Grey bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes, his cheeks and chin were speckled with uneven stubble.

  ‘Who wants to see me?’ he said, his voice dry and brittle.

  ‘Never mind that. You were going to tell me something the other night, before Sophie interrupted us.’

  ‘I can’t remember, Mikey, everything’s a blur at the moment.’

  ‘It was something about Billy and Terrence. What aren’t you telling me?’ Lambert saw the flicker of recognition in Klatzky’s tired eyes. ‘You’re going to have to tell me sooner or later. Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Billy told me not to tell anyone.’

  Lambert rubbed his temples, tried to count to ten but stopped after reaching five.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Simon, Billy’s been dead nearly twenty years. I don’t think he’s going to mind much.’

  Klatzky squirmed beneath the covers. ‘Okay, okay,’ he shouted. ‘Billy told me something once. I’m not sure if he even remembered he’d told me. We were hammered. I thought he was joking to begin with but then the conversation got a little bit too real.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say to him. He started to go on about his dad. Things that happened in his childhood. It was fucking awful stuff, Mikey. He was crying by the end of it. I was only nineteen. I didn’t know what to say or do.’

  ‘No one’s blaming you, Simon. Just tell me what he said.’

  ‘I can’t go into the details. Let’s say his father was not a nice man.’

  Lambert paused, confused and annoyed that Klatzky had hidden this from him.

 
; ‘There’s more isn’t there? How does this link in with Terrence?’

  ‘I didn’t even think about it until the other day when we were in Bristol. Billy used to go to these counselling sessions. We never mentioned the conversation again but I knew when he’d been. He used to pretend he was going running. He’d always glance at me before he left as if asking me not to share his secret.’

  ‘What sort of sessions were they? One person? A group?’

  ‘Group sessions I think. But that night when he told me about it, when he was crying, he mentioned that he’d once seen Terrence Haydon at one of the meetings.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Simon, why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘I told you, I forgot.’

  ‘You forgot?’ said Lambert, swaying on his feet. ‘How stupid are you? In fact, how stupid do you take me to be, Si? You didn’t forget.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mikey. I promise, man, I forgot.’

  Lambert turned away. ‘You’re pathetic,’ he said, leaving the room. He only hoped his friend’s failure wouldn’t cost him dearly. Lambert was now positive someone was trying to set Klatzky up.

  Chapter 28

  The snail-like traffic of the south circular came as a relief. Lance edged the car along, allowing other vehicles out at junctions and pedestrians to cross in front of him. He’d switched off his usual eighties station and sat in silence, only the hum of the engine and the peripheral sound of other car stereos keeping him company.

  Since ditching his passenger yesterday, Lance had received two pieces of bad news.

  The second piece of bad news came in the form of a summons that morning. Campbell had called, demanding his presence at a safe house in Surrey, hence his gratitude at the slow pace of the traffic.

  He’d received the first piece of bad news last night.

  After dumping the still drugged and sleeping Klatzky in a secluded area in Uxbridge, he’d dropped off the car and headed for The Bricklayer’s Arms, in Wood Green. The Klatzky character had seen his face, and despite the man’s lack of sobriety, and Campbell’s assurances, this troubled Lance. Within an hour he’d drunk four pints of premium lager and the worry had faded in part. As he was ordering his fifth, a one-time acquaintance of his stumbled through the bar entrance.