Читать книгу Dead Eyed - Matt Brolly - Страница 14

Chapter 5

Light blazed through the office windows on the third floor of the Bristol Central Police Station. DI Sarah May pulled down the blinds in her temporary office, blocking the piercing September sun and opened the window an inch to allow fresh air into the musty-smelling room. After switching on her computer, for the second time that day she turned her attention to Michael Lambert’s file. She’d enjoyed meeting Lambert. So much so that she’d suggested they meet that evening. It had been an impulsive request which she’d convinced herself she’d made for professional reasons.

His file made for interesting reading. He’d joined the force a year after leaving University, joining the same accelerated programme she was on at the moment. After two years’ probation, he’d moved straight to CID. His training officer, Glenn Tillman, was now a Chief Superintendent working for the NCA.

Lambert worked in major crimes and had reached the level of Detective Chief Inspector by the time Tillman recruited him again for a division in SOCA. The trail went cold after that. Lambert’s last three years of service had been almost blanked from the records. Even her Super didn’t have the clearance required to access details on Lambert’s term in SOCA.

She dropped the file on the desk and stared at the photo supplied with the file. If it had been taken some time ago, it didn’t show. Lambert was six foot one with the kind of slim, wiry body she associated with athletes. The photo captured his sad, doleful hazel eyes but missed the lopsided grin she’d encountered during their meeting at the coffee shop.

It had been convenient he’d emailed last evening. It hadn’t taken her long to link him to Terrence Haydon. Lambert had been friends with the last Souljacker victim, Billy Nolan, eighteen years ago. May had subsequently discovered that Haydon had lived in the same halls of residence as Nolan and Lambert.

May placed her hands on her cheeks and stared at Lambert’s photo. He’d made a good lunchtime companion. Funny and intelligent, self-depreciating, he was the sort of man she’d always been attracted to. Still, he was definitely holding back on something. They had tiptoed around the case, each only sharing the minimum of information. She’d asked him not to start his own investigation. His response had been non-committal at best.

A shadow lurked behind the glass panelled door of her office. She recognised the shape.

‘Yes,’ she shouted.

DS Jack Bradbury opened the door. ‘Christ, bit fresh in here isn’t it?’

May had been so wrapped up in Lambert’s file that she hadn’t noticed the cold air leaking through the window. ‘Jack, what have you got for me?’

‘The file you wanted. Simon Klatzky. Bit thin, I’m afraid.’

‘Thanks.’

Bradbury dropped the file and exited the office without a word. They had dated, if it could be called that, for two months prior to May becoming an Inspector. It had been an impulsive thing, and like all her impulsive actions it was something she’d had to learn to live with. Two years later, and still he moped after her. They’d managed to keep the affair a secret back then. Now she wished they had been more open about it. That way they would never have ended up working together, and she wouldn’t have to see his wounded look every time she refused to pay him attention.

The file on Klatzky was indeed thin. Like Lambert, and fifty other students, Klatzky had been interviewed following the death of Billy Nolan. In his statement, Klatzky had declared that out of the small group of Nolan’s friends, he was probably the closest. His life following his friend’s death suggested that he had not taken the incident very well.

Klatzky had been a promising engineering student, and had left Bristol University with a first. Yet, he had never held down a significant job since graduating. Now there was an arrest warrant out on him for failure to appear at court following a bout of shoplifting. One of Lambert’s former colleagues had spotted Lambert and Klatzky arriving at Temple Meads station that morning. Knowing that May was working on the Souljacker case, and Lambert’s tenuous link, he had called May with the information. It had been worth it to see the look on Lambert’s face when she’d asked him to bring Klatzky along for dinner that night.

May stretched her legs, tensing her calf muscles. She hadn’t been for a run since Haydon’s body had been discovered. The lack of exercise filled her body with tension. She’d been struggling to sleep recently, her legs twitching her awake at night. She promised herself she would make time for a quick run that evening, before her meeting with Lambert. It would be negligent not to do so. Healthy body, healthy mind, as her father would say.

Talking of healthy body, she hadn’t had a coffee in nearly an hour. She walked to the small kitchen office and dropped some instant coffee into a mug. It wasn’t ideal but was the best available. Two DCs, Tony Chambers, and Lyle Coombes, stopped talking as she entered.

‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’ she asked.

‘No, ma’am.’

Both men worked on the Souljacker case. Clearly, they felt awkward with her presence in the kitchen but they were waiting for the kettle to boil so couldn’t leave the close confines of the room. She didn’t make it easy for them. She leant back on the sideboard and folded her arms, both men doing everything to avoid her gaze. Strange how a simple change of title could affect the way people interacted with you. How you interacted with them. ‘Any news for me?’

‘Um, no, ma’am,’ said Chambers. ‘We’ve interviewed some more of his work colleagues, and they all spouted the same stuff.’

‘Nice enough guy, kept himself to himself,’ said Coombes, gaining courage from his partner.

The kettle boiled. ‘Don’t mind if I jump the queue?’

The men shook the heads, desperate for her to leave.

Back at her desk, she examined the old case files. Ten Souljacker victims in a twenty-one year period, but an eighteen year gap since the last murder. She may have considered Haydon’s death a copycat had there not been the link between him and the last victim, Nolan.

Absurd as it sounded, they had called in a handwriting expert to compare the indentations ripped into the torso of Terrence Haydon, with that of the previous victims. Going on photographic evidence, the expert had suggested there was a high probability that the Latin carved onto the victims, In oculis animus habitat, was made by the same person.

‘How probable?’ May had asked.

‘Hard to say for sure. I could be more precise if I was judging perhaps his handwriting on a piece of paper, but I would say ninety to ninety-five percent chance. If the latest, um, inscription, was made by a copycat, for instance, then I would say they are an expert forger.’

Not only an expert forger, but an expert killer. It would take skill, along with an exceptional coldness to keep someone alive whilst you extracted their eyeballs. The inscription on the body would have taken hours. Each letter was always carved with extreme precision.

One anomaly had sprung up from the handwriting expert. He’d said that the writing on the first victim’s torso, Clive Hale, from twenty-two years ago, didn’t match the others. It was possible that it had been his first kill, and he’d been nervous, but the expert was adamant the writing was not the same as the others.

May opened the office door and called for Bradbury. He appeared two minutes later, the hound dog look replaced with a look of professional attention, as if he’d given himself a pep talk in the intervening minutes. She realised she shouldn’t be so hard on him. In retrospect, he’d always wanted more from their time together than she did. She could have, and should have handled it better. She made a mental note to speak to him about it.

‘Jack, do you know anything about the SIO on the Nolan case all those years ago? Julian Hastings?’

Bradbury stood by the desk. ‘Not much more than I’ve read in the file. He was working here until the late nineties. I heard he was a bit of an old school copper. Bit strict. Not hugely talkative. From what I’ve heard the Nolan case fucked him up a bit.’

May looked up from her file for the first time since Bradbury had entered.

‘Sit down, Jack, for Christ’s sake.’

Hastings had retired six years earlier with the rank of Chief Superintendent, having spent his last eight years in Kent. ‘How was he fucked up, as you so eloquently put it?’

‘He became a bit obsessed with it, you know how it is. Rumour has it that was why he left the city. You know he’s a writer now?’ said Bradbury.

‘Yes, I picked up one of his titles today. Blood Kill.’ May picked up the book from her desk. A crude paperback, the words BLOOD KILL taking up half of the cover in a thick maroon font.

‘Catchy title. Wonder what it’s about?’

May offered him smile. ‘Read any?’

‘One. His first one. Can’t even remember the name now.’

‘Memorable then?’

‘I’m no expert. You could tell he was a copper though. Had all the procedures down to a tee. And the violence, though there wasn’t enough of that.’

The review didn’t bode well. Hastings had published three books since retiring. All police procedurals. Blood Kill was his latest according to the young woman who had sold May the book but according to the inlay page it was published three years ago.

‘Could you try and contact him for me?’ said May. ‘I’d like to get his take on the Nolan case. See if we’re missing anything.’

‘Sure. Anything else?’

‘No. Thanks, Jack.’

It would be good to get Hastings’ input. As things stood there was very little to work with. The killer was still an expert at hiding his traces, though forensics had managed to extract another man’s DNA from Haydon’s hair.

May withdrew the photos of Lambert and Klatzky from their files and entered the open-plan office where the incident room was situated. She walked to the incident board and pinned up the two photos, and drew three lines.

One line connected Klatzky and Lambert.

The other two lines connected the two men with the photos of the last two Souljacker victims.