Dead Lucky (23 page)

‘You think this is about me?’

‘Don’t you? You think the killer had a grudge against Moira and let you live for the sake of it? Do you think he wanted the whole of the Dempsey family dead with the exception of Laura Dempsey?

‘So it’s my fault.’ Tears welled in Sackville’s eyes.

‘No. Don’t get maudlin on me, Eustace. You have to think. What links you and Dempsey, both of you to Lennox?’

A snarl appeared on Sackville’s face, a coldness Lambert hadn’t seen in him before. The alcohol had changed him and Lambert feared that the conversation was essentially over. ‘I can imagine loads of people wanted Lennox dead, and heaven knows I’ve never been the greatest man. But why Moira, what did she ever do?’

‘What about Blake? Did he know Lennox in anyway?’

The bottle of whisky slipped from Sackville’s hand as his eyes slipped close. Lambert reached over and caught it in time. He tilted Sackville’s bulk into a makeshift recovery position. After tipping the contents of the bottle down the kitchen sink, he called for the officer. ‘Keep an eye on him. He’s trying to kill himself. No more alcohol is allowed in this house, you understand?’

The officer nodded.

Lambert took one last look at Sackville. ‘What the hell did you do, Eustace?’ he said to the sleeping figure.

Chapter 33

Lambert called Kennedy from the car. ‘I need you to run tonight’s debrief. I want Sackville’s notes scrutinised for details on Lennox. Have we had any hits on Lennox’s old cases?’

‘Nothing yet, but I’ve tracked down his former colleague, Doug Lindsay. I’ve arranged to meet him tomorrow at ten a.m. He’s in London for the day. He chose to meet in Leicester Square of all places.’

‘Text me details and I’ll meet you beforehand. Call the hospital and tell Dr Hughes we’ll be back tomorrow after our meeting with Lindsay. Get together as much info on Blake, and Lennox. We need pictures, especially of Blake when he was younger. See if we can help her remember.’

He thought about the Watcher as he drove to Sophie’s house. He hadn’t made contact for some time. Although a normal burglary was more likely, Lambert couldn’t get away from the thought that the Watcher had broken the lock on Sophie’s door. It was probably designed to divert his focus. It was certainly effective but he couldn’t take the risk. Lambert had been under the presumption that the killer watched as some form of revenge, but what if there was more to it? What if he had to be close to the suffering for it really to stimulate his own emotional response? Potentially, the need for revenge could be satisfied with a finite list of people. But if the killer was getting some form of satisfaction from his own reaction to the murders, it could make his list of victims endless, and could make it easier to add someone like Sophie to the list.

A plain clothes officer stopped him as he walked the pathway to his old house. Lambert showed him his warrant card.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the officer.

‘Anything suspicious?’ asked Lambert.

‘No, sir.’ We’ve checked around the back. There is access to the house from a small dirt lane but we didn’t see any damage to the fence. To be honest, sir, we’re not sure why we’re here. A locksmith is in the house now.’

‘You checked his credentials?’ said Lambert, controlling a rising panic as he rang the doorbell.

‘Obviously, sir.’

‘Okay, sit tight,’ said Lambert, glancing in the direction of the officer’s car.

Lambert was relieved to see a bedraggled looking Sophie open the door, a sleeping child locked to her chest by way of a baby carrier. Sophie’s face was paler than he’d ever remembered, her skin puffy with dots of red. ‘Hi,’ she said, turning her back and walking down the hallway.

Sophie’s mother was in the kitchen-dining area, studying the work of the locksmith with a critical eye. She glanced at Lambert with a dismissive sneer, as if he was somehow to blame for the broken door.

The locksmith stopped working and nodded at Lambert. ‘Bit of a weird one,’ he said to Lambert, unbidden. ‘The catch seems to have snapped, see,’ he said, showing Lambert a broken piece of metal which made no sense to him.

‘Why is it weird?’

‘It doesn’t really just happen, or not that I recall anyway.’

Lambert noted the look of concern on Sophie’s face. ‘Is it possible it’s been tampered with?’

The man grunted, rubbed his chin whilst he gave the matter his full consideration. ‘I don’t think so. They’d have had to open up the casing, and there’s no sign of that occurring.’

‘So it could be bad luck?’

‘Must be,’ said the locksmith, as if anything else was beyond his imagination. ‘Anyway, that will hold you for now.’ He moved the handle of the door up and down, locked and unlocked the door twice.

‘Thanks for coming, Michael,’ said Sophie, once the locksmith had left. ‘I know I’m being silly.’ She undid the carrier, the baby asleep. She lifted her from her body and placed her in a carrycot on the floor of the kitchen.

‘Excuse me,’ said Sophie’s mother, lifting the carrycot and exiting the kitchen area. Sophie was on the verge of tears. He’d seen the look on her face countless times before.

‘How are you sleeping?’ asked Lambert. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her and offer his help, but wasn’t sure about the boundaries any more. ‘Sit down, I’ll make some tea,’ he said, with nothing else to offer.

Sophie smiled and took a seat on one of the dining chairs. ‘I must be seeing a new Michael here. I can’t remember the last time you offered to make me tea.’

‘Don’t get lippy. White tea?’

‘Of course,’ she said, smiling again as if all her cares had momentarily disappeared.

He made the tea and joined her. He wondered if he would ever come to terms with the situation. Sitting in a room which used to be his, with the woman who was still his wife. ‘Is she sleeping well?’

‘Not too bad. I’m getting up twice a night to feed, but aside from that she sleeps well and Mum has been great.’ She hesitated, a gesture Lambert had become familiar with over the last three years. Ever since Chloe’s death, they’d had to tiptoe around each other, both scared of saying the wrong thing.

Lambert waited, gave her the space to talk if she wanted, but she drank her tea and went silent. ‘I’m sure the door’s nothing to worry about.’

Sophie nodded. ‘I know, but thanks for popping over. I really appreciate it. Mum’s made some dinner, you’re welcome to stay if you want.’

Maybe it was the separation, or his self-pity, but Lambert couldn’t read the signals. He wasn’t sure if she really wanted him there, and didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

He made a tour of the house, checking the locks on the doors and windows. He even checked the light fittings, ceilings and walls, making a cursory glance for anything out of the ordinary.

‘Thanks for coming,’ said Sophie again, as she showed him out of the front door. ‘A shame you couldn’t stay.’

‘Another time.’

Lambert took a deep breath and walked over to the unmarked patrol car. ‘When are you due back?’ he asked the officer he’d spoken to earlier.

‘We were told to wait here until relieved. We’re past shift time now, but…’

‘Okay, give me thirty minutes and I’ll take over,’ said Lambert.

Stakeouts were boring at the best of times, despite this he still preferred being alone. It was off the clock, and no one knew he was here. He’d bought some provisions from the local supermarket and now it was down to the waiting, without knowing what he was waiting for.

He read the newspaper, avoiding, to begin with, the pieces on the Watcher. More and more, the press were focused on creating a sense of fear and when he eventually read the pieces he was not surprised. The reporting was completely over the top. With no corroboration, Mia Helmer stated there was no direct link between the victims.
Dead Lucky
, she repeated. According to her, it was simply down to chance, who was killed and who was left alive. She may as well have said that the Watcher was out there, waiting, and that the whole of London was a potential victim. He scrunched up the newspaper and threw into the back of the car as the streetlights popped into life.

Lambert studied each person who passed Sophie’s house, deep down knowing the Watcher wouldn’t show his face so readily. Why the hell was he here? He couldn’t justify the cost of other officers being here, but nor could he be here all the time. He wanted the killer to call him, to confirm his suspicions that he had Sophie’s house under surveillance, but his phone refused to ring. He decided now was the time to catch some sleep. He closed his eyes, and tried to banish thoughts of the case by thinking of Sarah May, the only positive part of his life at present. He recalled the time they’d spent together in Bristol, as they both recovered from their ordeal on the Souljacker case. Despite that trauma, his time with her had been the most peaceful he could recall for a very long time. He promised himself he would call her tomorrow. He wanted to make things between them more permanent, and for that to happen he had to offer her something. Though what that was, he wasn’t sure.

A banging noise on his side window woke him. His hand reached for his expandable baton, as he adjusted to the darkness and the figure peering in at him. ‘Jesus, Kennedy, you trying to give me a heart attack?’

Kennedy was hopping from foot to foot, two cups of coffee in her hand. Lambert nodded to the passenger seat and Kennedy made her way round. ‘How did you know I was here?’

Kennedy handed him a cup and placed the other in the cup holder. She hugged herself, swaying from side to side to keep warm. ‘Bloody freezing out there. What happened to Rostron?’

‘Rostron?’

‘DC Rostron. He was assigned here earlier. Told me he’d seen you here.’

‘Did he now?’

Kennedy took a drink. ‘Something I should know?’

Lambert smirked. What could he tell her? That the Watcher had been calling him? That he had an absurd worry that his wife and his daughter’s baby sister were being watched as they spoke? In the end, he went as close to the truth as he felt able. ‘It’s possible the back door was broken last night. I’ve called out a locksmith but thought I’d keep an eye on things just in case.’

‘You plan to stay here all night?’

He didn’t think Kennedy fully bought the story, but she wasn’t about to argue with him. ‘A few more hours, yes.’

‘Will you be able to stay awake?’

‘I will now.’ Kennedy looked tired. It had been a long day for both of them. ‘Go home and get some rest,’ he said.

‘I can stay with you. You know, if you want me to.’

‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to be doing with your time.’ He waited for her to speak, was sure she’d found him to tell him something, probably about Walker and Tillman.

Kennedy didn’t respond. She sat, staring out into the desolate street.

It was comforting having her in the car but he couldn’t have them both being tired for the next day. ‘Go get some sleep, Kennedy. We need to see Laura Dempsey after we’ve seen Lindsay. You did well last time. I’m sure we’ll get the answers we need.’

Kennedy went to say something and checked herself. ‘Sir,’ she said.

‘Oh, and Matilda,’ said Lambert, as she was about to close the door.

‘Sir?’

‘Thanks for the coffee.’

Chapter 34

Lambert didn’t sleep again. He managed to read three quarters of the paperback he’d purchased from the supermarket. He was thankful when he noticed movement from the living room window at six a.m. Sophie had always been an early riser, and he watched her silhouetted figure pull the blinds open. He considered knocking on the door but she would only worry if she knew he’d been outside all evening. Instead, he sent her a text message checking everything was okay which she immediately responded to.

He left the car and walked to the greasy spoon on Croydon Road, where he used to treat himself now and again when he still lived in the house. The place was already full, labourers getting their carb and protein fill before the long day ahead. Lambert ordered an English breakfast and attempted to concentrate on the newspaper he’d purchased from the newsagent next door. His pulse increased as his mobile rang. He looked at the screen and wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not that it wasn’t a withheld number.

‘Lambert.’

‘Sir, it’s Walker.’

Lambert paused, wondered if his day was about to take a turn for the worse before it really began. ‘Walker. What can I do for you?’

‘Thought I’d let you know I’m back at work, sir. Eye is much better.’

Lambert let out a breath. ‘Speak to Devlin, lots to do,’ he said, hanging up.

After breakfast, he drove into the centre of London. It was not the ideal way to travel but he couldn’t leave the car at Sophie’s. He parked the car in a tiny underground carpark near the Southbank, and crossed the bridge to Charing Cross before making his way to Leicester Square. He took a seat on one of the benches in the square and waited for Kennedy. It had been years since he’d been here. It was quieter than it would be in the evenings, the garish neon lights of the cinemas looking lost and dowdy in the greyness of the day.

Devlin called to confirm that Walker was back at work. He hadn’t heard the last from Walker. Lambert was sure that he was just waiting for the right time. Walker’s black eye could have nothing to do with Tillman and Kennedy, but if Tillman had hit him, then Lambert was sure Walker would use the incident to his benefit. Walker had a Machiavellian streak, and after the case was over Lambert would make sure that he was moved to a different department. Ideally another location entirely.

‘Ah, the bringer of gifts,’ said Lambert, as Kennedy approached carrying another coffee. ‘People will talk if you keep spoiling me like this.’

‘Here,’ she said, handing him the cup which was still piping hot. She looked fresher than last night. Her red hair was tied back tight in a bunch, her pale skin unblemished. She wore a patterned scarf around her neck, and a long buttoned winter coat.

‘Where are we meeting him?’

‘Just over there,’ said Kennedy, pointing to the shop front of a coffee house chain.

Lindsay appeared twenty minutes later. An elderly man dressed in tweed, he was accompanied by a woman of similar age. He lifted his head straight as introductions were made. The woman was his wife, Eileen. ‘How long will we be?’ he asked, not yet taking a seat.