Dead Eyed

by Matt Brolly

  Lambert received a few looks from a group of off-duty policemen as he sat down, facing the door. It was probable his notoriety had spread.

  He waited for three hours before Bardsley sent him a text message. ‘Sorry, Mike, I’ve just heard. They released Klatzky twenty minutes ago.’

  Lambert hung up and called Klatzky. The phone rang but Klatzky didn’t answer. He sent him a text then called again. The phone was now switched off. He waited at the bar for a further twenty minutes, hoping that Klatzky would appear, then gave up and returned home. He called Klatzky again, then Sophie, receiving answerphone messages for both. At home, he made a bowl of soup but could only eat half of it.

  Restless, he caught a taxi to Klatzky’s flat in Plaistow, East London. The lights of the ground floor flat were switched off. He rang the doorbell to no avail. He shone his torch through the letterbox. A week’s worth of post was piled high on the floor.

  Trying to think like Klatzky, he went on a mini pub crawl of the bars in the area. The majority of the bar staff he met knew Klatzky and promised to call him if he appeared.

  Leaving a grotty pub called The George, Lambert noticed a black Saab parked opposite. A man sat behind the steering wheel, blatantly avoiding Lambert’s eye contact. Lambert remembered seeing the same car, and driver, outside Lewisham police station earlier that day.

  He decided not to approach the driver yet. He wanted to make sure that he was actually being followed. His hunch was that Nielson had sent one of lackeys to monitor him. He walked along the main street to an Irish bar called McNulty’s. It was like being inside a wooden box. Cheap wooden frames held pictures of football teams dressed in green, the ceiling was lined with old replica rugby and Gaelic football tops. The bar manager recognised the photo of Klatzky on Lambert’s smartphone.

  ‘I barred him two weeks ago,’ said the man. ‘What’s he done now?’

  Lambert gave the man his card. ‘Will you call me if he returns?’

  The man took the card with a shrug. ‘He won’t be coming back here again,’ he said, ‘unless he wants to leave the place in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Humour me,’ said Lambert. He left the bar and walked back towards the main road. The Saab was two hundred metres down the road to his right.

  He’d had enough of the games. He walked towards the car. When he was fifty yards away, it pulled out into traffic. It turned left into Lisbon Grove driving not much faster than walking pace. Lambert upped his own pace into a jog, his body not happy in its hungover state to be forced into such movement. He rounded the corner into a small street, lined with neglected office buildings and a trio of boarded-up shops.

  The car had parked on the right-hand side of the road. The driver sat motionless behind the driving wheel. Lambert could see his eyes in the rear-view mirror. He stopped halfway across the street, the sound of screeching tyres freezing him in place.

  ‘Fuck,’ he mouthed to himself. It was a textbook ploy, the decoy driver in the Saab diverting his attention while a second vehicle tracked him. It happened in a matter of seconds. Not enough time for Lambert to adjust.

  The van screeched to a halt in front of him, a side door sliding open. Lambert turned back to the pavement to see a man the size of a mountain bearing down on him. Six foot four of thundering muscle ran at him, driving him hard into the back of the van. The door was slammed shut, and the van sped away.

  The manoeuvre had taken less than ten seconds.

  Chapter 40

  As Lambert tried to push himself up from the floor of the van, the rugby-tackling man knocked him back down. For good measure, he punched Lambert in the midriff causing him to bend double. Lambert clutched his stomach, trying to calm his heartbeat as he waited for his breath to return. As he gasped for air, the rugby player pulled him by his collar until he sat upright, his back against the padded wall of the van.

  Two other men were in the van. One was another overgrown henchman like the rugby tackler. The man’s eyes bored into Lambert’s with unconcealed violence.

  The other man Lambert recognised.

  ‘Thanks for joining us,’ said Tillman.

  Lambert shuffled his body into a comfortable position. The rugby player goon still had his hands on Lambert’s shoulders holding him in place.

  ‘Tell this prick to get his hands off me,’ said Lambert, looking directly at Tillman.

  Tillman dipped his head and the man let him go and took a seat to Tillman’s left.

  Lambert considered striking out at him as he moved but decided against it. ‘You could have called me,’ he said.

  Tillman laughed, his bloated face rippling with fake amusement. ‘The last thing I’d want to do at this precise moment is let anyone know I’m associated with you in any way whatsoever. Would you like to tell me what the hell is going on?’

  Lambert didn’t recognise the two men with Tillman. He didn’t think they were officially part of The Group. He imagined they were hired muscle, most likely ex-military. Lambert knew he was in a precarious position. The Group didn’t officially exist. Although to some extent Tillman had to report to someone, Lambert was not sure who that someone was and how often that reporting took place. To put it simply, Lambert knew it was not beyond Tillman’s power to have him disappear. Furthermore, Tillman knew Lambert understood this and would be happy to exploit the fact if necessary.

  ‘I’m sure you are well aware of what’s going on, sir.’

  ‘What I’m aware of, Michael, is that you’ve been using The System to investigate a handful of murders which seem to be linked to you one way or another at every turn.’

  ‘You sort of knew that when you assigned me to the case.’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me, Lambert. I didn’t assign you to the case. You begged me for access to The System. Professional courtesy you called it. And my good will’s about to run out. You need to explain everything to me now.’

  Six years ago, Tillman had been kidnapped and tortured by two men who worked for an arms smuggling organisation. Lambert had tracked his boss to a house on the Isle of Dogs, and with time against him had entered the building alone. One of the men had escaped during the confrontation when he’d arrived. Tillman had killed the other man in cold blood, Lambert testifying that it had been in self-defence.

  Despite this, Lambert knew the debt had now been repaid. He explained everything from investigating Haydon’s and Hopkins’ murders to Klatzky’s involvement, the murders of Samuel Burnham and Kwasi Olumide, and finally Sarah May’s disappearance.

  It was clear that he wasn’t telling Tillman anything he didn’t already know. ‘So you’re sure the same killer is responsible for both sets of murders?’

  ‘Sure as can be.’

  ‘Could the Burnham and Olumide murders be a copycat?’

  ‘It’s a poor copycat if it is,’ said Lambert. ‘One removes the eyes, the other seals them shut.’

  ‘Where’s Simon Klatzky now?’ said Tillman.

  ‘I happened to be trying to find that out, when your friend here rudely blindsided me.’

  The rugby tackler smirked.

  ‘Have you mentioned you’ve been using The System to anyone?’ said Tillman.

  Lambert shrugged. The question was redundant. Only a handful of people were aware of The System’s existence. Public knowledge would result in a national outcry. Any disclosure of The System would be punished swiftly by Tillman, and Lambert was not foolish enough to see how far Tillman was willing to go.

  ‘We’ve made a massive fucking footprint on this, Lambert. People have been asking after you. News has spread that you’ve been investigating on your own like some crazed vigilante. And now this bloody DI’s missing it’s become everyone’s business. I didn’t expect this shit when I gave you access again.’

  ‘What can I say?’

  ‘Tell me you’ll find the fucking DI and the psychopath that’s behind everything.’

  ‘So am I officially working for you now?’ asked Lambert.

  Tillman knocked on
the divider which separated the back of the van from the driver. The van pulled over.

  ‘Are you fuck as like,’ said Tillman. ‘If you’re involved in this in any way then you understand the consequences.’

  A picture sprang into Lambert’s mind. His house on fire, Lambert trapped within the burning shell. ‘I’ll find them,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t see me again until then,’ said Tillman. ‘And then we need to make a decision on your future.’ The statement was provocatively open-ended. Tillman’s goon pulled the side door open and pointed to the pavement.

  ‘I’m always open to a bit of career advice,’ said Lambert, as he jumped out of the still moving van.

  Once the van disappeared down the road, he continued the search of local bars for Klatzky. Tillman’s last statement still rang in his ears. A decision on his future. Half threat, half opportunity. It was something he would have to consider soon.

  He’d been trying his best not to think about Sophie. Just the thought of what she’d told him made him nauseous. He didn’t care about her infidelity, apart from his wounded male pride. It was the thought of the baby growing within her which left him distraught.

  There had been complications during Chloe’s birth which had meant Lambert had held Chloe before Sophie. The midwives cleaned and wrapped the baby, and handed Chloe to him as Sophie was still being checked over by the emergency birthing team.

  The memory was ingrained on him. Chloe had stopped crying as he held her in his arms, looking up at him and holding his gaze. Even now, he could close his eyes and picture it in perfect clarity.

  Lambert winced, taking in deep breaths. The new baby would be Chloe’s sister, but would not be his child. He went into the next bar and ordered a double vodka. The liquid burnt his throat, and he ordered a second.

  He would have to leave the house at some point. He owed it to Sophie to let her bring the baby up there, even if eventually she would share her life with someone else. He would need to return to work, whether that was in Tillman’s department or not.

  He didn’t order a third drink, knowing one more would put him over the edge. The barman hadn’t seen Klatzky and he received the same response in each of the subsequent bars he visited. He left his contact details at each place on the off chance that Klatzky would make an appearance. He stopped for a kebab at one of the endless supply of take away joints. As he took his first messy bite into a shish kebab, his phone rang.

  ‘Lambert.’

  A nervous voice stammered on the other end of the line. ‘Um, Mr Lambert. It’s Myles.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Myles?’

  ‘I have some information. Very important, but I want some money first.’

  ‘Nothing for nothing,’ said Lambert. ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘Something you want. A possible link to Campbell.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A thousand.’

  Lambert laughed. ‘Don’t be stupid, Myles.’

  ‘It’s worth it. When have I let you down before?’

  ‘It will be the usual rate. I will double it if it leads to Campbell’s arrest.’

  ‘Oh come on. I’ve missed a whole day’s work thanks to your buddy, Bardsley. Thanks for passing on my name by the way.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s take it or leave it, Myles. I’m not negotiating.’

  Stoddard knew that with one call he would be arrested and would have to give the information without payment. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Mile End,’ said Stoddard.

  ‘That’s convenient. What brings you to the East End?’

  ‘I met up with a mate.’

  Lambert told him the name of a bar he knew in the area. ‘I’ll be there within half an hour,’ he said.

  Chapter 41

  The bar was a five minute walk from Mile End tube station. Dimly lit, with faded carpets, the bar was badly in need of decoration. The smell of stale beer fought with the stench of urine which filtered into the room from the pub’s toilets. Lambert had checked the exit points before entering. He tried to control the tension within him, knowing Stoddard couldn’t be trusted. He examined each face in the bar for a clue. It was possible the Souljacker was in the room. It was possible, after May’s disappearance, that he would be next.

  Stoddard stood next to one of the fruit machines, nursing a pint of bitter. On seeing Lambert, his eyes darted around the room.

  ‘Two more of those,’ said Lambert to the unsmiling barman, pointing at Stoddard’s drink. ‘There you go, don’t say I never get you anything,’ he said, placing the two drinks on a table. ‘Come sit, Myles.’

  ‘Where’s the money?’ Stoddard sat, hugging himself as if he were cold. He couldn’t keep eye contact with Lambert for more than a second.

  ‘It’s in my pocket, Myles. Now what do you have to tell me?’

  Stoddard gulped down the remains of his first drink and started on his second. ‘It’s about that second killing,’ he said, ‘the one after Burnham.’

  ‘You’re talking about Kwasi Olumide,’ said Lambert, leaning over the table conspiring with Stoddard in hushed tones.

  ‘Yeah, Kwasi. Friend of a friend knew him.’

  ‘Oh really.’ He’d always been impressed by Stoddard’s ability to gain information. He didn’t seem to have much in the way of family and friends, at least not when he’d worked as an informant for Lambert. Yet the man had an uncanny ability to pick up news and snippets of information from the unlikeliest of sources. If things had worked out differently for him, he could have made a go of it in Lambert’s profession.

  ‘Yeah, he knew him quite well. Knows his widow even better if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Have you told DCI Bardsley any of this?’

  ‘Not yet. I thought I’d go to you first.’

  ‘Good choice, Myles. Continue.’

  ‘Anyway, this friend of a friend was talking to the widow after the funeral and whatnot. It seems Kwasi left something alongside his meagre will.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly but it had the friend of a friend quite agitated. Something about some work Kwasi had been doing. It was one of those “if something should happen to me there’s something you should know’” type of letter.’

  ‘Who’s the friend of a friend?’ demanded Lambert.

  ‘I don’t know his name. But I know the widow was considering going to the police and from what he said she was too scared. She feared that whoever killed Kwasi would come for her next if she passed on the information.’

  ‘And that’s all you have?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Hey, I think that’s pretty good don’t you? It’s more information than Bardsley got from the widow.’

  Lambert leant back in his chair and stared at Stoddard. The man crumpled further into himself, holding his jacket, making himself look as small as possible. One thing Lambert knew about Stoddard was that he didn’t give bad information. He was too scared of the repercussions. Lambert took the money from his pocket and held it beneath the table. Stoddard snatched it like a toddler taking an offered sweet.

  ‘You’ll give me the rest?’ asked Stoddard.

  ‘I’ll speak to the widow,’ said Lambert. ‘You can finish my drink,’ he said getting to his feet.

  He considered calling Bardsley to ask for permission to speak to Kwasi’s widow but decided it would only complicate things. Better to face the consequences later. He already had her address on file. She lived in Stratford, one stop away on the Central line.

  Again, he had the feeling that he was being directed. He wished he’d pushed Stoddard more. If he’d had more time, he may have discovered more about who had fed the information to him. It was too late now. The estate was two-storeys high. Each floor had a line of identical red bricked flats. The ex-Mrs Kwasi lived on the second floor, number forty-six. A white woman in her mid-forties opened the door to him. She wore a grey tracksuit. Her hai
r was dishevelled as if she’d recently left her bed, yet her face was caked in a layer of recently applied make-up.

  ‘What?’ she said to Lambert as a means of greeting.

  ‘Mrs Olumide? My name is Michael Lambert, DCI Lambert. I’m sorry to bother you so late. May I come in? I have a few questions to ask you about what happened to your husband.’

  ‘I’ve changed my name back to my maiden name,’ said the woman. ‘We’ve been separated for a year, though we were still technically married. Laney, Laney Richardson.’

  ‘Miss Richardson, may I come in?’

  ‘I just got off the phone to one of your lot,’ said the woman, not answering his question. ‘Something about one of your officers going missing?’

  ‘Right, well this is linked. Can I come in?’

  The woman hesitated by the door. Behind her a child screamed out for its mummy. Lambert was surprised the child was not in bed.

  ‘Perfect,’ said the woman. ‘Come in then if you’re going to.’ She stormed down the hallway which was painted an overpowering shade of purple. It was a poor job, the walls pitted with holes and loose bits of plaster. In the kitchen, a toddler sat at a highchair wailing, his face covered with food. The child stopped on seeing Lambert, stared at him much like a wild animal ascertaining the threat level. Sensing no threat, he returned to his food.

  ‘I take it you haven’t any positive information for me?’ said Richardson, her elbows propped on a spotted tablecloth covered with a week’s worth of dirty dishes and moulding food.

  ‘The investigation is progressing,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s come to my attention,’ he started and then hesitated. ‘Look, can I be open with you, Miss Richardson?’

  She shrugged her shoulders as if the idea of an honest policeman confused her. ‘Whatever,’ she said.

  ‘The thing is I’m not officially attached to this case,’ said Lambert. ‘The missing inspector, the one you’ve just found out about, she’s a close personal friend of mine.’