by Matt Brolly
Ollie Trench owned a small scaffolding firm which operated in the area. Trench was a legendary soak. Now in his fifties he spent most of the working day in various local pubs leaving the organisation of his business to his two sons.
‘Drink, Ollie?’ asked Lance.
‘Why not?’ said Ollie, hobbling over to Lance’s position by the bar.
‘Work injury?’ asked Lance, pointing to Ollie’s leg.
‘Pissed,’ said Ollie, slapping Lance across the back.
Lance sighed and ordered two drinks. ‘Little dram with that,’ said Ollie to the barmaid. ‘What’s new, boy?’
Lance had worked the odd job for Ollie over the years. He paid reasonably well and for Lance always made it cash in hand. However, once he knew Lance worked for Campbell the contracts stopped. ‘This and that, you know. Business good?’
‘Not bad, must give the boys credit they’re driving things along. Another?’
‘Why not, boy?’ said Lance, mimicking the man.
Ollie ordered two more lagers, with a pair of whiskey chasers. ‘You heard?’
‘What’s that, Ollie?’
‘You heard about that thing?’
Lance downed his whiskey chaser and took a swig of the lager. ‘I need something more to go on here, mate.’
‘Your man, from over Essex way.’
Lance tried to recall who he knew from Essex, thinking it might be quicker than waiting for some sense from the man to his side. He couldn’t think of anyone. ‘Something more, a name perhaps?’
‘What’s the fella, Burnham.’
‘Sam Burnham?’
‘Yes.’
‘He lives near Watford, but carry on.’
‘He doesn’t any longer.’
‘Come on, Ollie, tell me what you have to tell me. This story is longer than The Bible.’
‘I would take another sip of that first if I were you.’
Lance did as suggested.
‘Dead. A few days back.’
Lance stood rigid and glared at Ollie. ‘What the fuck, Ollie?’
‘Savage it was. Body all messed up. Something fucking awful done to his eyes.’
Lance staggered over to the nearest seat and collapsed.
‘Sorry, I thought you knew,’ said Ollie.
Lance had known Sam Burnham about as well as he knew Ollie. With one major difference: Sam had been the contact who’d eventually led him to Campbell.
Lance carried on drinking until the early hours. At some point Ollie left. Various images of the remainder of the night flickered in his memory, mercifully out of reach. He couldn’t remember leaving the bar or returning home. His girlfriend refused to speak to him as she dressed for work, Lance’s aching body prone on their bed. Some time later, Campbell called.
And here he was now, heading towards a meeting with the man who’d probably butchered Samuel Burnham. He tried to call his ex-wife as the traffic thinned but she was not answering his calls.
He came off the south circular. The roads deteriorated as he headed into the countryside, until he was driving along a single lane road, little more than a dirt track. He’d arranged to meet at the same place he’d first met Campbell all those years before. On that occasion, two of Campbell’s subordinates had picked him up from a parking lot in East Finchley, late at night. Without speaking, they’d blindfolded him and threw him in the back of a van. On that journey, Lance had feared for his life. But it had been an indistinct fear, something he could reason against. Campbell hadn’t had a reason to want him dead then.
But now?
Now, he’d almost paid back the debt. Now, he’d seen things which could lead back to Campbell. Now, the thing with Lambert had gone wrong, Klatzky had seen his face and Sam Burnham was dead, his eyes sealed shut with wire.
As the turning for the safe house approached, Lance lowered the car into second gear. His pulse thumped in his neck and forehead, strong enough to hear. He considered not making the turn, continuing up the country lane until he was back in the real world, and then driving onwards as far away from Campbell as was possible.
But that was fantasy. Campbell had taken pictures of his ex-wife and child, had promised they would pay for any mistakes Lance made. He hadn’t been the best husband or father, but he would be damned if he would sacrifice his family for his own safety. Even if it meant suffering like Sam Burnham.
He parked outside the safe house. The building was borderline derelict. Mounds of weeds splintered the concrete driveway. Half of the six front-facing windows were smashed, shards of glass jutting out from the window frames. Lance parked the car. His was the only vehicle outside the building. He prayed Campbell had forgotten their rendezvous.
With shaking hands, he knocked on the splintered wood of the front door. When there was no answer, he rapped three times on the one remaining window.
Still nothing.
He found the front door key in its prescribed position under the second of four rocks which bordered the concrete driveway. His back creaked as he lifted the boulder, the flesh on his right arm tearing on a jagged piece of rock as he picked up the keys. Sweat poured from his forehead. He wiped it from his eyes with his grime-layered hands and opened the door.
Cold air hung in layers within the house. Lance shivered, his skin breaking out in goosebumps. ‘Mr Campbell?’ he whispered, walking through a dust-covered rug into the house’s main room.
Lance saw the body first. It was the man with the broken leg, the one he’d taken from the hospital in Bristol. What remained of the man, anyway. Lance bent down to look closer, only to see a second figure.
In the gloom of the safe house’s front room, Lance witnessed something he would never have thought possible.
Campbell, who lurked in the shadows waiting for him, was scared.
Chapter 29
Campbell ordered him to take the body to the car. ‘Put some gloves on, man, for pity’s sake,’ he said.
Lance switched on the light in the room, instantly regretting the action. The body must have already been moved once, as there was barely a trace of blood on the floor. The corpse was missing his left leg, the wound where it had been hacked off just below the knee had been cauterised. Lance froze, and stared at the corpse’s face. The man’s eyes were sealed shut by a line of crude stiches.
‘Just do it, man,’ said Campbell.
First Burnham and now this second victim. The nameless man who’d had his leg broken by Lambert. Lance retreated to his car and lined the boot with a sheet of polyethylene. He pulled on his gloves and returned to the body. The corpse was surprisingly light. He tried not to look at it, tried to ignore the questions in his head. He shut the boot, catching a glimpse of the corpse’s sealed eyelids.
Campbell sat in the passenger seat.
‘Where now?’ asked Lance, sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to control the tremors which ran through his body.
Campbell didn’t answer. He punched a postcode into Lance’s sat nav. Lance sighed and set off. They reached the destination an hour later, the forecourt of a disused petrol station.
‘We’re going to dump him here?’ said Lance.
The fear Lance had seen, or thought he’d seen, back at the safe house had evaporated. Campbell glared at him, and he had to look away.
‘He’s going to be found if we leave him here,’ said Lance.
‘They need to find him,’ said Campbell, signalling the end of the conversation. Lance did as he was told, dumping the body in full view.
It came as a relief when Campbell told him to drive to the train station. Lance pulled the car to the entry of the station, thankful to see other people.
Campbell took off his seatbelt. Lance froze as he reached into his inside jacket pocket, and let out a deep breath when Campbell handed him a brown manila envelope and a piece of white paper.
‘Deliver these to the first address,’ he said. ‘Meet me at the second address by six p.m.’
Chapter 30
Lambert acc
essed The System, and searched for details of the counselling sessions Klatzky mentioned. Nothing appeared on the original police reports about Nolan attending such sessions. It was inconceivable that Hastings hadn’t uncovered that aspect to Nolan’s life. Lambert wasn’t fully convinced Klatzky had told him everything. He decided not to push the man further for the time being. He left him at the house sleeping off his hangover, and caught the train into London.
It was after accessing the Burnham file, that Lambert had noticed a familiar name in the witness list. Myles Stoddard. Stoddard was one of Lambert’s old informants. Stoddard worked as a mechanic at a small garage in Crouch End. He’d been an acquaintance of Burnham and, with a reasonably sized criminal record, had been questioned by DCI Bardsley about his whereabouts at the time of the murder.
Lambert found the garage on a leafy terraced street. The forecourt was only big enough for three cars. It was a quaint place, the result of two terraced houses being knocked together, the front garden used for servicing the cars. Distorted music screeched from two tiny speakers inside the Portakabin which served as the garage’s front office.
A short, bald man dressed in blue overalls worked behind a battered shop counter. He ignored Lambert as he walked through the door. Lambert noted three shades of colour on the man’s full beard. He folded his arms as the mechanic glanced down at something on his desk before eventually looking up.
‘Help you?’
‘I’m here to see Myles,’ said Lambert.
‘He’s a bit busy at the moment, mate. We’ve got an important job on.’
‘Tell him Lambert’s here to see him.’
The man went to argue but a look at Lambert’s body language changed his mind. Fifteen minutes later, Myles Stoddard walked through the front door of the Portakabin. He was dressed in identical overalls to the bearded man. It had been nearly five years since Lambert had seen him. He was the same beanpole figure. The lank hair which fell from his head was thinner, faded. His shoulders drooped on seeing Lambert.
‘What do you want?’
‘Good to see you too, Myles,’ said Lambert.
The man straightened up. ‘Don’t think I haven’t heard about you. You’re no longer working.’
‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Myles. Take a seat.’
An old leather sofa took up half the space inside the Portakabin, next to an ancient drinks machine which offered instant coffee, tea and soup. Lambert sat down. ‘Sit,’ he instructed.
‘I’ll stand,’ said Stoddard.
Lambert glared at the man. ‘Sit.’
Stoddard rolled his eyes and sat next to Lambert, the sofa barely big enough for the pair of them. Lambert put his arm around the back of the sofa and glared at Stoddard. The man tried to recoil but there was no space for him to move. ‘A colleague of mine came to see you recently, DCI Bardsley.’
‘Jesus, not that again. Look, I’d nothing to do with that. I hardly ever see Burnham.’
‘Well you won’t be seeing him any time soon, will you?’
‘No, but why are you guys hassling me? I was only his mechanic.’
Lambert laughed, an exaggerated humourless sound.
Stoddard rolled his eyes again.
‘Look, I don’t care whatever angle you were working with him, Myles.’
‘I wasn’t working any…’
Lambert raised his hand to stop the man’s protests. ‘Whatever it was, I don’t care. I’m only interested in what happened to Burnham. Who was responsible?’
‘Well, it wasn’t me.’
‘Well, of course it wasn’t you, Myles. You’re a two-bit criminal, you haven’t the balls for murder. Not something like that anyway.’
Stoddard was deflated, as if not having the capacity for murder-mutilation was an insult.
‘But I read your statement and there was something you didn’t tell my colleague. You are holding some information back and I need to know what that is.’
‘You don’t know shit,’ said Stoddard.
Lambert edged closer. Stoddard started blinking, a nervous habit Lambert remembered from before.
‘Who was Burnham working with? There must have been someone. This wasn’t a random thing.’
Stoddard rubbed his chin. His eyes darted to the ceiling. Lambert allowed him thirty seconds for his internal debate. ‘You either tell me now,’ said Lambert, ‘or I’ll get Bardsley back here with some uniformed police this time. And I’ll start asking about you in local bars, get your name out there.’
Stoddard’s thin body shrivelled more into the sofa.
‘I don’t work for you any more, Lambert. That was a long time ago.’
‘Once you sign on with me, Myles, it’s for life. Now what ’d’you have to tell me?’
‘Oh Christ, I don’t know. As I told your mate I only saw him once a year when he came in for a service and MOT. But I heard rumours.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Jesus, he had a few bad years apparently. Got into debt. I heard he was in big with some loan shark guy.’
‘Name?’
‘Oh come on, I can’t tell you that.’
‘Name,’ repeated Lambert, and then softer, ‘you’re not going to be mentioned, Myles, and you won’t see me again.’
‘I don’t know who the guy is. Never seen him. All I know is that he goes by the name of Campbell and if you ask the right people I guess he can be found.’
Lambert couldn’t recall any mention of the name Campbell on the report. ‘You must have more than that for me, Myles. A first name.’
‘I swear, that’s all I know. I’m not even sure this guy exists.’
‘Don’t get all existential on me, Myles.’
‘What?’
Lambert sighed. ‘What do you mean you’re not sure he even exists?’
Stoddard’s blinking intensified. ‘I don’t know. He’s like an urban legend or something.’
‘An urban legend?’
‘Yeah. You go to Campbell if you need help, but no one ever sees him. I don’t know, Mr Lambert. I have nothing to do with this nowadays. I hear rumours now and again, that’s all.’
Lambert placed his hand on Myles’ shoulder. ‘Thanks, Myles. Pop back to work now.’
A name. Campbell. Lambert took the tube to Paddington. He called DCI Bardsley whilst he waited for his train to Bristol.
‘You working on my case as well now?’ asked Bardsley.
‘I like to be of assistance,’ said Lambert.
‘Well, we could always use you here when you’re ready to make a comeback.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Lambert. ‘So what do you know about this Campbell?’
‘I’ve heard the name before. I’ll speak to the rest of the team and see what they know. I may need to pay Mr Stoddard a little visit.’
‘I promised we’d stay away from his work.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll get back to you if we get more information.’
On the train to Bristol, Lambert began searching for Campbell on The System. It wouldn’t have been much worse if he’d been called Smith. Stoddard didn’t know the man’s first name which made it near impossible. Lambert viewed the hundreds of hits which appeared on his screen and diverted his attention elsewhere.
The details of Roger Haydon’s suicide now appeared on HOLMES as an entry on Terrence Haydon’s murder. He’d managed to hang himself from a thick wooden beam in his spare room. The pathologist’s report stated he’d snapped his neck so his death had thankfully been quick.
At Bristol Temple Meads station, Lambert caught a taxi to Whitchurch. May had warned him not to approach Sandra Vernon’s house again, but she wasn’t answering her calls so he couldn’t ask her permission.
Sandra Vernon tried to shut the door on him but he managed to jam his left foot in between the door and frame. Her face contorted in rage. ‘I’ll call the police,’ she hissed. ‘They’ve told you not to come here any more.’
‘We need to talk,’ said Lambert.
/> ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘This is about Roger.’
‘Then I still have nothing to say to you.’
Lambert couldn’t see any emotion for her ex-husband’s death. All he saw was anger, fear, and hatred in her eyes.
‘Miss Vernon, I need to talk to you about the counselling sessions your church used to run.’
Vernon stopped. Lambert knew his hunch, or at least part of it, had been a good one. ‘May I come in to talk?’
‘We can talk here.’
‘What can you tell me about those sessions, Miss Vernon?’
‘What sessions? The church has been running counselling sessions for twenty, thirty years. Many years before I joined the church. AA meetings, marriage guidance.’
‘This was something a little different. More delicate. I think Billy Nolan used to come to your church for counselling.’
‘Who?’
‘Please, Miss Vernon. Billy was killed by the same killer who killed your son.’
Vernon feigned surprise as if the connection had just occurred to her. ‘Oh him, yes well. What’s that got to do with the counselling sessions?’
‘As I said, I think he used to come here whilst he was at University.’
‘Perhaps. Unlikely. Why would he use the church? I wouldn’t know,’ she said, as if trying to convince herself.
‘Who used to run the sessions?’
‘My God, it was twenty years ago. We had all sorts of people. Volunteers. People from the church. Professionals from the council. I’m only a volunteer myself.’
‘Surely someone would have records from that time?’
Vernon folded her arms, pushing a line of flesh above the collar of her shirt.
‘I don’t know,’ she insisted. ‘I’m pretty sure we don’t keep records of those things even now, let alone then. It was all supposed to be anonymous.’
‘I can imagine. You would need to respect people’s privacy,’ said Lambert, trying to empathise with the woman. ‘But could you perhaps ask around for me? It is important. Obviously I’m going to let DI May know about our meeting as well.’
Vernon unfolded her arms.
