Dead Lucky (16 page)

‘Thanks, Eustace. Are you sure you want to stay here? As I said before, we could put you somewhere safe.’

Eustace Sackville looked around the mess of the caravan. ‘Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’

Chapter 23

Sarah was gone by the time he returned to his bedsit. After dropping him off, Kennedy was taking Sackville to the station where they would arrange for secure housing for the journalist.

Locating Sackville had created more questions than it had solved. Lambert ran another search on The System, trying to find out Harrogate’s interest in Blake, but no active investigations were displayed. Whatever Harrogate was up to was undercover, though not so much so that a journalist hadn’t worked it out.

Lambert took a bottle of vodka from the mini fridge in the kitchen area and poured himself a measure. The first sip stung the back of his throat, the acid-like liquid tasting of nothing but sending a wave of relaxation through him. He poured a second helping and sat on the bed where only that afternoon Sarah May had slept, the crinkled sheets forming an approximation of her sleeping form.

He realised he hadn’t checked in with Sophie for some time. He remembered the trauma of the first few days with Chloe, the radical shift in their routine and sleeping habits, and wondered how Sophie was dealing with everything. She had her mother for company, but that wasn’t quite the same. He decided he would visit first thing, however difficult it would be seeing the new baby in the house, sleeping where Chloe had once slept.

He downed a third drink and switched off the light. The vodka had been a mistake. It was keeping him awake. He was caught halfway between sleep and consciousness. Images from the last few days played in his head, a random collage of distortion. His wife’s new baby, Eustace Sackville stumbling up the path to his caravan, Kennedy at the coffee shop, Laura Dempsey’s parents alone in their flat, DS Harrogate attacking him outside Blake’s house. His mind danced with scenarios and thoughts, as he tried to fall asleep. Did Mr and Mrs Patchett know their grandchildren and son-in-law had been murdered, that their daughter was now effectively alone in the world? He thought about the killer, surely not Curtis Blake unless he was disguising his voice or, more likely, using a proxy, calling him at the most important of times, as if he was somehow tracking him.

The thoughts and questions appeared and disappeared, his mind too tired to hold onto any one thought long enough for him to fully analyse it.

At some point he must have fallen asleep. The incessant bleep of his phone tore him from his rest. In a daze, he patted the bed searching for it, his body drenched in sweat. He found it on the bedside table, knocking over the glass from earlier that night. ‘Yes,’ he screamed into the receiver, only to realise that he must have set his alarm at some point.

It was six a.m. He showered and changed, called Kennedy and told her to take the morning’s debrief from the night team.

After a short drive, he sat outside his old house and waited. The city workers were already up, dropping their children off to school, boys in grey shirts, girls in checked dresses, to their breakfast clubs before catching their trains into town. Sophie had stayed at home until Chloe started pre-school, had gone back part-time at the solicitors’ firm when Chloe was three, and gone full time when Chloe started school. Sophie made partner before Chloe had left infant school.

A father held hands with a young girl who skipped along, book bag over her shoulder, and Lambert had to stifle a cry as he remembered holding hands with Chloe, walking her down the same road to the same school.

The front door opened and Sophie poked her head around the door, checking the road was clear, and stepped out in her dressing gown to pick up the milk and bread on the doorstep.

Lambert took the bag of pastries he’d purchased from the local bakery, and made his way over to his old house. He knocked on the door, absurdly nervous.

‘Oh,’ said Sophie, opening the door, only her head visible. ‘Michael.’

‘Sorry, I can come back. I was just passing and thought…’

‘No, don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a surprise, come in, come in.’

Lambert followed her down the hallway to the kitchen area. He’d been living here a few months ago, but now the place had the feel of somewhere he didn’t know or belong. They’d had a kitchen extension built following Chloe’s arrival. Large, glass panelled concertina doors were already opened, leading through to a wood slated garden area where Sophie’s mother enjoyed the morning sunshine. In the shade of the dining area, the baby slept in a brand new carrycot.

‘Oh, Michael,’ she said, mirroring her daughter.

‘Glenda.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Thanks. I’ve bought some treats,’ he said, lifting up the bag of pastries.

‘Great,’ said Sophie, taking the bag off him and returning to the kitchen.

‘Nice of you to make an appearance,’ said Glenda, once Sophie had left. They’d never had the best of relationships. Glenda, like her daughter a high level solicitor, had never approved of his work. Sophie had told him, early on in their relationship, that she’d gone so far as to tell Sophie to leave him. Supposedly, a policeman’s wife was no life for her daughter. The relationship had soured beyond recognition following Chloe’s death, for which she still blamed Lambert.

He chose to ignore the latent slur. ‘Good to see you too, Glenda. How’s William?’

‘Fine. Having to fend for himself. I imagine he’s enjoying his freedom.’

I bet he is, thought Lambert. Sophie’s father had always been a bit more amenable to Lambert’s line of work. He used to run a small accountancy firm and had managed to retire early. He spent most of his time between the local tennis and sailing clubs. Lambert had often teased Sophie that anywhere would have been preferable to spending time at home.

Glenda smiled at him. She’d hadn’t looked away from him since he’d arrived. It was her way with people, a passive aggressive way of sizing people up and putting them in their place. Her distaste was all too evident. ‘Why are you here, Michael?’

‘I’m checking on Sophie, and…’

‘Jane.’

‘I know the child’s name, Glenda. Sophie has asked me to keep in contact, so I am.’

‘Sophie doesn’t know what she wants,’ she replied, through gritted teeth.

‘Right, coffee and pastries. A glorious morning and a sleeping child. Heaven.’ Sophie placed a steaming cup of oily coffee in from of him, and the plate of pastries in the middle of the table.

Glenda leant back in her chair, and smiled. ‘How are things back at work?’ she asked, as if the last conversation hadn’t occurred. ‘Must be strange after all that time away?’

‘It’s like I’ve never been away.’

‘Is that a good thing?’ asked Sophie.

Lambert thought about how easily he’d settled into the makeshift routine, the late and unpredictable hours. He thought about the things he’d witnessed and how quickly his mind was able to accept the atrocities. ‘Good question.’ He leant over the table and took an apple turnover off the plate. He was about to take a bite when Glenda handed him a napkin.

‘How are you keeping, more importantly?’ he asked Sophie.

‘Fine. Jane is a heavy sleeper. For the time being.’ Sophie touched the wooden table.

Lambert couldn’t bring himself to ask about Jeremy Taylor. ‘How have work been?’

‘Sent me those,’ said Sophie, pointing to large bouquet on the dining table. ‘They’re great as always.’

Lambert pictured Taylor arranging a collection at work, choosing the flowers for his wife. ‘This is all a bit strange,’ he said.

Glenda sighed, and he ignored the woman as she rolled her eyes.

‘Mum, perhaps you could check on Jane.’

‘But she’s asleep.’

Sophie turned and fixed her mother with a glare only she could get away with.

‘Fine. I’ll make myself scarce, why not?’

‘A joy as always,’ said Lambert once his mother-in-law was out of earshot.

‘Don’t, Michael, she’s been wonderful. I don’t know what I would have done without her.’

‘Is that a dig at me?’

‘What? No. Of course it bloody isn’t.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it…’

‘Look, I can only imagine how difficult this is, but there are stranger things in the world.’

Lambert pictured Laura Dempsey’s family, immediate and extended, wrists cut open. ‘Don’t I know it. What about… him…’

‘Jeremy?’

Lambert nodded. He knew he was behaving like a love-scorned teenager, and worse, knew how hypocritical he was having not told Sophie about Sarah May. ‘Yes, Jeremy,’ he said, as if swearing in a church.

‘He’s been here every day. He’s due at lunchtime. The firm have given him paternity leave which he’ll be starting soon.’

The words stung. It was too difficult. Sitting in what was once was his home, with a woman who was still technically his wife, discussing another man’s paternity leave.

‘Sit, Michael. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Sophie placed her hand on his arm. He pulled away, as gently as possible.

‘You haven’t. I need to get back to work. I’m waiting on a debrief on a case we’re working on.’

Sophie followed him into the dining area. ‘You haven’t even asked to hold her,’ she said, gazing over to the carrycot where the baby slept.

Sophie had told him he was a natural with Chloe. He’d loved holding her as a baby. He’d had a knack of getting her to sleep which had confounded and amazed Sophie in equal measures.

‘She’s not mine, Soph.’

‘She’s Chloe’s sister,’ said Sophie, her eyes watering.

‘But she’s not mine.’

Chapter 24

Matilda started the morning debrief, updating the team about Eustace Sackville, who was currently in protection. She could only imagine the expense.

She’d dropped Eustace Sackville off at the safe house, a terraced property in North London, and left strict instructions with the two officers responsible for guarding the place. As there didn’t seem to be any imminent danger to the journalist, she wondered how the costs would be justified. Tillman had called her as she drove home. He’d wanted to see her but she’d declined his invitation, knowing she had to run the debrief session.

It was all she could do now to stay awake. The night team had little to add, and she gave out instructions for the day which included her going to see Noel Whitfield along with Walker.

‘What is our main line of enquiry at the moment?’ asked Devlin.

It was a reasonable enough question. ‘DCI Lambert wants us to consider that Dempsey and Sackville are linked somehow. Our focus is finding what links Eustace and Laura, rather than what links the actual victims.’

‘And what if they’re not linked? What if the victims are random?’ Walker couldn’t resist getting involved.

‘Then we’re stuffed,’ said Matilda, receiving a wave of supportive laughs from the exiting members of the team. ‘Now, we all know our roles for today. Back here at six for the debrief.’

Everyone dispersed, Matilda pleased to see the sense of urgency and excitement. Although everything was tentative at the moment, there was a feeling that they were getting closer.

The last known location of Noel Whitfield was a flat in Finchley. ‘Why exactly are we here again?’ asked Walker, once they’d parked by a set of tall metal bins overflowing with garbage. The flat was located in a high rise building. Like Walker, Matilda knew the area was not overly welcoming to the police. Officers were told to approach the building in a minimum of pairs, but ideally in larger groups.

‘I told you. We need to rule Whitfield out.’ Kennedy had explained the finer points of the Whitfield case. How the man, represented by Moira Sackville’s former lover, Charles Robinson, had been acquitted of the attempted murder of Andrew Haynes. How he had supposedly left Haynes permanently disabled, and made Rebecca Pritty watch as he’d tortured and repeatedly stabbed the man.

‘I can’t believe he’s not institutionalised. It was just a technicality, after all,’ said Walker.

Matilda had met with Whitfield’s case worker. He was considered a risk but they didn’t have the powers, or as the man had alluded, the money, to take him into care.

Whitfield lived on the twelfth floor. Both the building’s lifts were out of order, and they were forced to make the long trek up the stairs. ‘Imagine having to climb these every day,’ said Walker, more to himself than to Matilda.

‘Think about those on the higher floors.’

The stairwells smelt like one continuous, never ending urinal, the trapped heat in the building intensifying the stench. Chipped paint fell from the graffiti covered walls. Think about living here at all, she thought.

Matilda took a deep breath of fresh air as she opened the doorway to Whitfield’s floor, a welcome 0breeze billowed around the floor which, like the stairwell, had been used as a makeshift toilet. The light brick walls were stained, and Matilda was forced to step over an unpleasant looking puddle of liquid to access Whitfield’s front door. ‘Ready?’ she said to Walker, rapping her knuckles against the wooden door.

Walker peered through the door. ‘TV’s on.’

Matilda knocked again. ‘Wait,’ she whispered, pressing her ear to the door.

Walker reached for his belt, hand posed on the expandable truncheon. He relaxed once the door creaked open. An overweight black lady, wrapped in what appeared to be little more than a brightly coloured sheet, stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip.

Matilda flashed her warrant badge. ‘May we speak to Noel Whitfield, please?’

The woman sighed. She looked Matilda up and down twice. ‘Noel,’ she screamed, not looking away.

‘What?’ Whitfield’s voice drifted towards them, weak and effeminate.

‘Someone for you.’

Matilda looked behind the woman, and made out a figure walking up the hallway. The woman moved back, and Whitfield came into sight. He was wearing only his boxer shorts, his face and body so emaciated that Matilda could easily see the shape of his rib cage, the contours of his eye sockets. ‘Noel Whitfield?’

‘Who’s asking?’ said the man, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

Matilda only introduced herself. Walker leant over the wall, checking the car was still there. By the looks of it he had come to the same conclusion as Matilda. Whitfield was not capable of the crimes which had befallen Moira Sackville, and the Dempsey family. He looked in desperate need of nutrition. ‘When was the last time you left the flat?’ asked Kennedy.