by Matt Brolly
‘There was one more thing, Miss Vernon. From what I understand, Billy attended these sessions with your son.’
‘No, impossible,’ said Vernon, shaking her head. ‘Well, I suppose Billy may have seen him there but Terrence never attended any meetings. He used to volunteer, setting up chairs, serving tea and coffee, that sort of thing. But he didn’t attend any meetings. He had no need.’
‘No, of course not.’
The woman’s voice rose in pitch. ‘I would know if he did. And anyway, why would he? He had no reason to.’
Lambert decided not to question her about what Roger Haydon had told him. The way Vernon had turned her back on him, the malicious rumours she’d started.
‘Okay, thank you for your time. In the meantime if you can think of anything, anyone else you think may have been at the meetings with Billy, will you let me know?’
‘I will let DI May know. Good day, Mr Lambert,’ said Vernon, slamming the door.
Sarah May called him back not long after, and they agreed to meet. He caught a taxi back into the city centre and was eating lunch in a small café by the riverside when she appeared. He’d been researching Sandra Vernon’s old church, which had been based in a small village outside Neath in South Wales. The place had disbanded nineteen years ago, not long after Vernon had left for Bristol.
‘You’re alive then?’ said Lambert, as she sat next to him.
‘Very much so, Michael. I’ve just had a lovely chat with Sandra Vernon.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’s devastated with the news about her husband. I did ask you not to speak to her again.’
‘Oh come on, Sarah. Something came up and you weren’t returning my calls. Let’s not play these games any more. I’m involved, and I want to help.’
May remained non-committal. ‘Why were you speaking to Sandra Vernon again?’
‘What did she tell you?’ asked Lambert.
‘Nothing that made coherent sense. Something about you ramming your foot in her door. Bringing up bad memories.’
‘Elements of truth in that,’ said Lambert. He shared his information about the counselling session Billy Nolan had attended.
May rubbed her eyes. ‘You should have come to me first with that,’ she said, almost whispering.
‘I tried,’ said Lambert.
‘Where did you get your information?’
‘I can’t disclose that. But Miss Vernon all but admitted it.’
‘You can’t disclose that?’ said May, incredulous.
‘Not at the moment.’ He wanted to protect Klatzky for as long as possible. If she knew he’d been talking to him, then she would demand he give the man up.
May exhaled, deciding not to pursue it any further. ‘So Vernon said Billy Nolan and her son used to go to counselling sessions at her church?’
‘Not exactly. Haydon was just a volunteer. Her memory was fuzzy, but I think it’s a promising lead. It links Nolan and Haydon,’ said Lambert, thinking that it also implicated Klatzky.
‘Well, thanks. I’ll get the team straight onto it.’
‘Tell me about the surgeon,’ said Lambert.
‘We’ve released him.’
‘How come?’
‘He was on call throughout the evening and early morning of Haydon’s murder. We’ve pretty much ruled him out.’
‘So what’s next?’ asked Lambert.
‘I’m liaising with Nielson. We will work the cases concurrently.’
‘So you’re not coming back to London?’ asked Lambert.
‘Not yet. Why, would you like me to?’ May ran her hand through her hair, holding his gaze. Lambert was again surprised by the hold the woman had started to have over him, especially considering their joint involvement in the case.
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ he said.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ll get onto the counselling sessions. I’ll ask Nielson to check on Sandra Hopkins’ past as well. If we can place her at any of the sessions we may have something to work on.’
Lambert changed the subject. ‘I was sorry to hear about Roger Haydon,’ he said.
‘I heard Nielson brought you in for questioning.’
‘It was more of an interrogation. You think it was a suicide?’
‘Nothing to indicate otherwise, though I would like to find out who Haydon spoke to before he died.’
‘Who do you think it was?’ asked Lambert.
May shrugged.
‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with Nielson’s desire to speak to Simon would it?’
‘Put yourself in our position, Michael. Would you want to speak to Klatzky?’
‘You’re being distracted.’
‘If that’s true, get him to hand himself in. The sooner we can eliminate him the better.’
‘Why didn’t you bring him in when he was in Bristol?’
May scrunched her face, a look of unease on her face. ‘We were going to. I had someone posted outside the hotel, then the Hopkins incident happened and everyone was needed back at the station.’
‘Oh dear. You have time for lunch?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
Lambert bought some sandwiches, and they moved outside. They sat side by side, looking out at the channelled path of the River Avon. Lambert felt the sun burning his skin as he lifted his arm to eat his sandwich. He wanted to share his theory with May that Klatzky was being set up, but that would bring with it too many complications. He stole the occasional glance at the woman, who sat facing the river enjoying the sunshine as if she was a tourist.
‘I met someone interesting yesterday,’ she said, not breaking her gaze away from the dirty brown water.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Another retired copper. Iain Hill.’
Lambert searched his memory for the name. ‘He led the team on the Clive Hale case?’
‘Yes, the first Souljacker killing. Hastings was his subordinate.’
‘I can’t imagine that old bastard being anyone’s subordinate. What did you want with him?’
‘Simply verifying my sources. Hastings’ recollection was not the greatest. Either that, or he’s not one of life’s sharers.’
‘That much is obvious. What did Hill tell you?’
‘It was what he didn’t tell me which is interesting. He reiterated what a good copper Hastings was, kept going on about him being a good leader.’
‘So what didn’t he tell you?’
‘It’s probably nothing, but there are some gaps in the investigations.’
‘Gaps?’ Lambert had read each Souljacker murder file numerous times and didn’t know where this was leading.
‘Nothing that would warrant a case review. Didn’t you find the case histories on the victims to be lacking?’ She turned to look at him, just as he was shovelling some baguette in his mouth.
He swallowed. ‘I don’t know,’ he conceded. ‘They’re in line with the reports for that era. What do you think was missing?’
‘As you know six of the victims had religious affiliates, even if they were to different organisations. I’m surprised Hastings didn’t look into this more, especially as the bodies piled up.’
‘Maybe he did. We should ask him.’
‘I will. I’ll be interested to see how this links in with the counselling sessions.’
Lambert paid for lunch and they walked back into the centre. ‘Let me help,’ he said, as they reached the turning for May’s station.
‘Can I stop you?’ she said, touching him on the arm. ‘Keep me informed.’
Lambert watched May’s figure disappear around the corner, and hailed another taxi.
Chapter 31
‘Where to, mate?’
‘Weston.’
‘Really? It’ll cost you.’
‘That’s fine.’
Thirty minutes later, the taxi dropped him outside the estate where Roger Haydon had lived. Lambert paid the driver and held out an extra twenty pounds in from of him. ‘Think you cou
ld wait for me? Hour at the most?’ he said.
‘I could do with some lunch,’ said the driver, snatching the money from Lambert’s grip.
Lambert took the short walk to Haydon’s old residence and knocked on the door.
Langtree opened the door before he’d finished knocking. ‘I saw you arrive in your taxi,’ he said, swaying in the door frame.
‘Can I come in, Thomas?’
‘Do what you fucking like, you will anyway.’ Langtree turned his back, and Lambert followed him into the house.
The place had transformed since the last time Lambert had visited. It had been a mess before. Now, it was a disaster. The place writhed with litter. Lambert waded through empty bottles and cans which coated the carpet of the living room. Discarded fast food packaging, cigarette butts, and piles of dirty laundry fought for every available space. Langtree sat on the same armchair Roger Haydon had sat in earlier in the week. He was dressed like the older man, in an oversized pair of boxer shorts and cotton vest. He picked up a tumbler filled to the brim with liquid, the colour of which suggested brandy or whiskey.
Lambert lifted a mound of soiled clothes from the sofa and sat down.
‘So what do you what, Lambert?’ said Langtree, slurring his words until they were almost unintelligible. ‘Come to pay your condolences again?’
‘I’m so sorry about Roger, Thomas. He seemed like a very nice guy.’
‘Nice guy? Nice fucking guy. That’s a good one.’ Langtree took a gulp of his drink as if it was water, wiping his mouth with his forearm.
‘DI May told me that someone else visited Roger before he…’
‘Killed himself?’ Langtree jumped to his feet, and fell back down onto his chair. He tried a second time, this time using the arm rest as a support. ‘Drink?’
‘Not for me.’
Langtree stumbled to the sideboard, a sixth sense helping him bypass the detritus surrounding the drinks cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and refilled his tumbler. A quarter of the drink had spilt to the floor by the time he reached his seat.
‘You’ll do yourself a mischief,’ said Lambert.
Langtree glared at him, his eyes struggling to maintain eye contact.
‘So, this visitor, Thomas. What do you remember about him?’
Langtree sighed. He looked at his drink but didn’t move the tumbler to his mouth. ‘I didn’t see him, I was at work.’
‘Did Roger say anything about him? Give any clues about who he may have been?’
Langtree shrugged. ‘If he did, he didn’t let on.’
‘So what happened?’ Lambert guessed Langtree was about a drink away from collapse.
‘By the time I was home, Roger had gone all quiet. He had a drink then he went out. Wouldn’t let me come with.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘Pub, I guess, I don’t fucking know.’ Langtree raised his voice, the face contorting on the verge of tears or violence.
‘Okay, Thomas, sorry. I’m only trying to help. Did you see Roger again after that?’
‘No,’ said Langtree, draining his glass, his eyes welling up. ‘I had to go to work,’ he said, between sobs. ‘When I came back, he was…’ Langtree was crying hard. ‘I’ve told your colleagues everything I know.’
Lambert stood up and placed a hand on Langtree’s shoulder. He was surprised when the man didn’t flinch. ‘Can I take a look?’
‘Yes,’ said Langtree, not looking up.
Police tape still cordoned the area but Lambert stepped under it. The SOCOs had finished their work so he couldn’t damage the scene anyway. A few days ago, Langtree had caught him snooping around up here. Now it was the place where Roger Haydon had died. The room still smelt of bleach and cleaning materials. Lambert touched the wooden beam in the corner of the room, the grain rough and sticky. He pictured the thick rope wrapped around the beam, Haydon’s lifeless body dangling beneath it.
He hadn’t spent enough time with Haydon to tell if he’d been suicidal or not. He’d certainly been upset over his estranged son’s death but hadn’t given the impression of wanting to end his life. There was something about his relationship with Thomas which comforted him. It was possible that the man who’d visited him yesterday had been the catalyst, but until they found out who that was they were stumped.
Lambert returned downstairs to find Langtree asleep on the floor. After manoeuvring the man into the recovery position, he retrieved a duvet from upstairs and placed it over his sleeping body. Finally, he scrolled his name and mobile number onto a piece of paper and left it by his side.
Chapter 32
Lambert spent the night in Bristol, twice coming close to calling May. He read through the case files again, from Clive Hale to Sandra Hopkins, searching for the missing gaps suggested by May. He couldn’t see anything of significance. There were always multiple avenues of approach to a murder, and Hastings had taken the normal route. Each victim’s background had been investigated thoroughly enough, and after each fresh murder Hastings had crosschecked the new victim with the older cases.
Lambert knew the DS on the Billy Nolan case, Cormack Riley. Riley worked out of Greenwich when Lambert was in The Group and they’d exchanged resources on a couple of occasions. Billy Nolan was the only Souljacker case Riley had worked on, before joining the MET. Lambert took a note of his details and headed for the railway station.
Klatzky called as he was boarding the train at Temple Meads. He sounded panicked, his voice high, his speech pattern slurred. ‘I’ve just been back to my place,’ he said.
‘And?’
‘There was a package there, no stamp, delivered through the door same as before.’
‘Have you opened it?’ asked Lambert.
‘Yes, and I wish I hadn’t. There are more photos. Someone else this time.’
The train carriage was empty save for a lone businessman engrossed in his laptop. ‘Same sort of thing as Haydon?’ asked Lambert, not wanting to get into specifics over the phone.
‘Not exactly,’ said Klatzky.
Lambert could hear background noise on the other end of the line. ‘Are you in a bar?’
‘Where else?’
‘Get to Paddington station. I’ll be there in under two hours. Simon, don’t speak to anyone.’
Klatzky was dressed in what Lambert imagined were last night’s clothes. He’d aged a decade since Lambert had last seen him. His eyes were lifeless. Lambert spotted him as he left the train, walking trance-like outside the entry to the platforms, a brown envelope clutched to his chest.
‘Let’s get a coffee,’ said Lambert.
‘I need something stronger.’
Lambert lacked the strength to argue. They took an escalator to a bar which overlooked the station’s concourse. Lambert ordered tea whilst Klatzky ordered a lager with a vodka chaser. With shaking hands, he gave Lambert the envelope.
It was only photos this time. Lambert knew immediately what he was looking at. It wasn’t Samuel Burnham but it was an identical crime scene to the one DCI Bardsley had shown him. The victim was a black man, shaved head, late thirties. Like Burnham, his eyes had been sealed shut with lines of wire, his throat slit. The third picture showed a jagged line where his left leg had been severed; right at the point where Lambert had broken it.
‘You didn’t see who dropped this at your flat?’ asked Lambert.
‘No. It was there when I got back.’
‘When had you last been back, prior to that?’
‘The morning before we went to Bristol.’
Lambert examined the photos again. They were not police quality. The images were hazy, the resolution poor as if they’d been printed on a home printer. It was probable that the killer had taken them. It was unlikely he had left any prints, but Lambert held the photos with a napkin on the edge of the paper.
‘Why is he sending them to me?’ asked Klatzky, drinking the vodka in one gulp, his fingernails ratting against the hard wood of the table.
‘I’m n
ot sure. Did you ever tell anyone else about Billy’s counselling sessions?’
‘Not that I can remember.’
‘Think carefully, Simon.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone at the time, I’m sure. Billy swore me to secrecy. I can’t see any reason why I would have blurted it out since. I didn’t even tell you until now.’
Klatzky now linked the Souljacker and the second killer and had received photos from both crime scenes which confirmed to Lambert that the Burnham killer was the Souljacker.
Things were closing in. The photos were important evidence but he planned to keep hold of them for the time being.
He realised now he’d been wrong. Klatzky wasn’t being set up as he’d initially thought. The Souljacker was after him and was using Klatzky to draw him in.
‘Okay, Si. You can stay at mine for the time being, until we’ve sorted this,’ said Lambert.
‘Thanks, Mikey. Can I get you a drink?’
‘No. Listen, you should…’
His pleas fell on deaf ears. ‘Look, sorry, man, but could you lend me some cash?’
Lambert emptied his wallet and gave the money to Klatzky. There was no way he would be able to talk him out of the bar. He tried anyway. ‘I need to get back. You should come with me.’
‘I’ll think I’ll stay here awhile. Stay out of trouble,’ said Klatzky, pocketing the money and signalling the barman.
Lambert waited until he was home to look at the photos again. He caught the tube to London Bridge and the overground train home. He tried to steer his mind away from the case. Everything was a clutter, his mind a jumble of useless information. Experience told him that tying to think about other things often led to inspiration, to an insight that would otherwise elude him.
From Clockhouse train station he ambled back to the house, his limbs stiff, an ache building in his head. Reluctantly he opened his front door. Inside, he brewed a pot of coffee. Knowing Sophie was away made the house seem empty even though she was never usually at home during the day.
Coffee in hand he walked through each room of the house trying to think, avoiding looking again at the pictures. The ceilings felt higher than normal, the rooms less cluttered as if Sophie had taken half of the house’s contents with her when she’d left. She’d be at work now. Lambert tried not to think about where she was spending her nights. She’d given him the name of a hotel but he’d yet to check if she was there. The possibility that she was spending her nights with Julian Taylor was too much for him to consider at the moment.
