Читать книгу Dead Eyed - Matt Brolly - Страница 16

Chapter 7

Klatzky had already started drinking. Lambert found him sitting with a giggling group of students, swigging from a pint of lager. The students were all girls. In their late teens, early twenties, they were strikingly beautiful, particularly in comparison to the rough and jaded figure of Klatzky. Unbelievably, they were enjoying his company. One of their number, a tall slender girl, laughed every time Klatzky opened his mouth, stroking her dark hair absentmindedly with her left hand. Klatzky had always been successful with women at University but Lambert was surprised that these women would have anything to do with him now.

‘Mikey, come and join us,’ shouted Klatzky, on seeing Lambert.

The young women stared at Lambert as he approached. A small blonde girl with an obvious fake tan and a face lined with over-enthusiastic make-up echoed Klatzky’s words. ‘Yes, Mikey, come and join us,’ she said, provoking good-natured laughter from the others. It was clear the whole group had been drinking for some time.

‘Simon, can I have a word?’ said Lambert, ignoring the young woman’s request.

‘Sure, sure,’ said Klatzky getting to his feet. ‘Here, girls, get another round in.’ Klatzky placed a twenty pound note on the table which was snapped up by the dark-haired girl.

Lambert led Klatzky outside. He decided not to reprimand him about the drinking. ‘I’m thinking of staying for a couple of nights,’ he said.

‘Fantastic,’ said Klatzky. ‘Where do you have in mind?’

‘Listen, Si, I don’t think this is going to work, you being here.’

‘Don’t mind me, Mikey. I’ll keep out of your way. One city is much the same as another.’

It was pointless arguing. ‘Fine, there’s a Marriott at the bottom of the hill. I’ll book us in separate rooms for the night. Then we can discuss the situation tomorrow. I’ll ring you later with the room number.’

‘Great. Listen, Mikey,’ Klatzky hesitated.

Lambert sighed and took his wallet from his trouser pocket and handed Klatzky eighty pounds. ‘Don’t let those girls screw you over, Simon. And for God’s sake get something to eat.’

‘Yes, mum,’ said Klatzky, returning inside.

Following his meeting with May, Lambert decided he would continue with his own investigation for the time being. He didn’t want to impede her in any way, but there were questions he was impatient to have answered. It was too coincidental that Billy Nolan and Terrence Haydon had lived one floor apart at University. There was a connection to be discovered between the two, however unlikely that sounded at the moment. Since joining the force, he’d always resisted the temptation to revisit the Souljacker case. He’d understood that he’d been too emotionally involved. Now it was unavoidable. Klatzky had forced his hand. Lambert decided to start where he would normally start: the victim’s closest relation.

He hailed an approaching taxi and ordered the driver to take him to a small suburb of Bristol called Whitchurch where Terrence Haydon’s mother, Sandra Vernon, lived.

Twenty minutes later, he reached his destination. Whitchurch was a grey area, populated by uninspired near-identical houses with ashen facades and dull brown-red tiled roofs. Sandra Vernon lived opposite a crumbling supermarket in a small terraced house. The front of the house was well maintained with UPVC windows. A stone pathway led through a neatly mowed front garden to the front door. Lambert waited for a beat and rang the doorbell.

A small plump woman with large circular rimmed spectacles answered. The smell of cinnamon and burnt toast drifted from behind her. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ she inquired, in a high-pitched Welsh accent.

Lambert told the woman that he was a friend of Terrence who had recently heard the terrible news and had come to pay his condolences. The rotund woman looked him up and down for an uncomfortable amount of time before inviting him in.

Lambert surveyed the living room whilst Sandra Vernon made tea in the kitchen. The room was sparsely decorated with white walls and a couple of mass market reproduction paintings in cheap frames on the wall. A small flat screen television sat beneath one of the rectangular PVC windows. A simple wooden crucifix hung above the fireplace. Beneath it, taking pride of place on the mantelpiece, was a picture of Sandra Vernon and her son on his graduation day.

‘He was a good boy,’ said Sandra Vernon, returning with a tray.

Lambert couldn’t detect any emotion in the woman, her face blank. ‘He was, here let me take that for you.’ Lambert took the tray from the woman’s unsteady hands.

‘What did you say your name was again?’ she said, the lilt of her accent deeper now.

‘Michael Lambert. I lived on the floor below Terrence in his final year at University. We were not the best of friends but I knew him.’

Sandra Vernon poured him a cup of tea.

‘How are you coping, Mrs Vernon?’ asked Lambert, sipping the weak tea.

‘Day by day, Mr Lambert, but it is Miss Vernon. The church is a great help to me as you can imagine.’

‘Of course. Terrence was always very religious at University,’ said Lambert, unsure if he was saying the right thing.

‘He had a strong relationship with God. For that he will be rewarded.’

‘I didn’t realise his home was in Bristol whilst he was at University. My parents lived in London. To be fair, I couldn’t wait to get away from them,’ said Lambert. He ignored the comment about God. Tension was always high when religion was involved. Experience told him it was best to steer clear unless the conversation was necessary. Like Klatzky, he was a lapsed Catholic. Apart from the odd occasion, wedding, baptism, or funeral, he hadn’t attended church since he was a teenager.

Vernon drank her tea, studying him, her eyes lifeless behind the covering of her spectacles. ‘I always was close to Terrence. I decided to stay near to him when he moved to University. We lived in Wales before then.’

Lambert had never heard of a parent moving with their child to University. Though not inconceivable, it suggested an over-familiar relationship between parent and child. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen Terrence. Did he ever marry?’

Vernon laughed. ‘No, no.’

‘Was he seeing anyone?’

‘As I said, Mr Lambert, he had a strong relationship with God. He had no time for such nonsense. God was all he needed.’ Sandra Vernon looked away as she said the last words, as if threatened by Lambert’s suggestion.

‘What was that church he was with? It was one of those really evangelical ones wasn’t it?’

‘It’s called Gracelife. It is a proper church, with true believers and proper morals. It’s one of the reasons I moved here in the first place.’

‘Of course, sorry I don’t know much about these things.’ With the conversation failing, Lambert knew he had a decision to make. Either leave things as they were, or push the woman further. She had recently suffered a great loss, and for that he was sympathetic, but he wasn’t blind to the tone she was using. She had taken a clear disliking to him, speaking down to him as if he was a child.

‘One thing that did confuse me, Miss Vernon. I see that Terrence had changed his name to Vernon. We’d known him as Terrence Haydon at University.’

‘That was his father’s name.’ Sandra Vernon sat on the edge of her seat. Her face had reddened and she glared at Lambert, her small eyes magnified by her oversized spectacles.

Lambert didn’t mind the woman’s discomfort. He pushed further. ‘Ah yes, I remember Terrence mentioning him. Is his father not around any more?’

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘He was no father,’ she said, lowering her voice.

‘Did Terrence ever see him?’

‘He ceased being his father many years ago,’ said Vernon. Her voice came out as a screech as the colour in her cheeks deepened, her eyes narrowing once more.

Lambert poured himself some more tea. He tipped the clear brown liquid into Sandra Vernon’s cup. ‘Oh. I hadn’t realised. I’m sure I remember Terrence mentioning him. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to understand.’ Lambert kept his voice low and steady, focusing all his attention onto the flustered woman.

Vernon leant back in her chair. ‘His daddy was an evil man, Godless. Left us when Terrence was a child. Terrence never forgave him. It was his decision. He waited until he left University, but he didn’t want that man’s name sullying him any more.’

Vernon was over-protesting. ‘Despicable. Is he aware that Terrence has gone to a better place? I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but I could inform him if you had an address.’

The woman let out a small sound which sounded like a wounded animal. Her facial muscles tensed and Lambert watched, bemused, as her upper lip rose revealing the redness of her gums. ‘I don’t have his address. Who cares if he knows? He was nothing to Terrence, to us.’ she snarled.

Lambert stood. ‘No, you’re completely right. I’m really sorry to bother you. I should go. I was hoping to visit his church before I left for London. Thank you for the tea.’ He had what he’d wanted. Any sympathy he’d had for the woman had faded. He sensed the hatred in the woman, knew it wasn’t simply a reaction to her son’s death. It resonated within her, and he sighed with relief when he was out of the claustrophobic confines of her house. He had to speak to Terrence’s father, but first he had to see his church.

A white painted building, the result of two terraced houses knocked together, the church had a small sign nailed to the side wall announcing the occupants as Gracelife, Bristol. Minister, Neil Landsdale.

An elderly woman wrapped in a pink-check clothed apron opened the front door. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m here to see the minister,’ said Lambert.

The woman glared at him as if he’d said something incomprehensible. ‘Minister?’

‘Neil Landsdale.’

‘I’m just the cleaner,’ said the woman. ‘You can come in and check the offices if you want. There are some people moving about up there.’ She walked back inside, leaving the door open.

Apart from a giant wooden crucifix hanging from the far wall, little else suggested the interior was that of a church. It was more like a small dance studio. Stacks of plastic chairs and folded tables surrounded a polished wooden floor. Dull brown walls propped up the low ceiling.

‘Up there,’ said the cleaner, pointing to a panelled door which led to a flight of stairs.

Lambert heard talking as he moved up the dark staircase. One male, one female voice. He reached the office door and knocked. The voices stopped and the door was opened by a smiling woman, wearing a long-sleeved dress, patterned with large garish flowers, ‘Mr Lambert by any chance?’ she said, her face twitching.

Sandra Vernon had obviously called ahead. He kept his tone light. ‘Yes, you have me at a disadvantage, Miss…’

The woman kept the painted smile on her face but didn’t invite him to enter.

‘May I speak to Neil Landsdale?’ asked Lambert, when she didn’t answer.

‘I’m afraid he’s awfully busy at the moment,’ said the woman, her light voice lined with the trace of a West Country accent. ‘Would it be possible to come back later?’

Lambert stiffened. ‘Not really, I’m afraid. I’m only in Bristol for the day. It will only take a few minutes of his time.’ Lambert pictured the minister sitting at a desk behind the door. He had no idea why the man was avoiding him, but one thing was clear, he would not be leaving without first speaking to the minister.

‘Please wait here,’ said the woman, shutting the door behind her.

Lambert placed his ear to the door, but couldn’t hear the muffled conversation. He stepped back as the door opened.

‘Mr Landsdale will see you now,’ said the woman.

Two chrome-framed desks sat side by side in the office, each with an old box-style computer monitor on them. A grey-haired man stood in front of one of the desks. His hair fell to his shoulder, a week’s growth of stubble protruding from his face. His smile was as prominent and false as his colleague’s. ‘Mr Lambert, pleased to meet you. I am the minister of our humble little church. You can call me Neil.’

Lambert accepted the weak handshake. ‘Thank you, Neil.’

‘Please sit, how may I help?’

‘As I am sure Miss Vernon has informed you, I was Terrence’s friend at University. I’d come to pay my respect to Miss Vernon. Whilst here, I thought I’d see the church Terrence was so fond of.’

‘That he was, Mr Lambert. Terrence was an active parishioner, ever since he joined our congregation when he was at University. He will be sorely missed.’

‘You’ve been minister all that time?’

‘Yes,’ said Landsdale, holding his hands in front of him, his fingers interlocked. ‘It is my church.’

‘So you know Terrence’s father?’

‘I’m afraid not. Sandra and Terrence’s father had divorced some time before they moved here.’

‘Did Terrence ever speak of him?’

‘With all due respect, what business is it of yours? I thought you came to pay your respects.’ The smile was still there, but the humour had disappeared from the minister’s eyes.

‘I have, and I wanted to pay my respects to both parents,’ said Lambert, his voice rising, his patience fading.

Landsdale understood. He unlinked his fingers and sat back in his chair, as if trying to escape Lambert’s gaze. ‘Look, there’s not much I can tell you. Terrence’s parents were parishioners of our sister church in Neath, when Terrence was a child. The church had a different approach then. From what I heard, there was a bit of a nasty business when they separated. Terrence never mentioned him.’

‘Do you know where Mr Haydon is now?’ It would only take a minute to find the father’s address on The System, but Lambert wanted to hear the address from Landsdale. He tapped his knuckles on the minister’s desk, and waited.

‘Now how would I know that, Mr Lambert? Perhaps you should ask the police.’

Lambert continued tapping the desk, despite the threat. He inched closer to Landsdale who shifted in his chair, looking everywhere but back at him. ‘Okay. Thank you for your time.’ Lambert stepped back from the desk, Landsdale letting out a sigh. ‘Before I go, do you ever use incense during your services?’

Landsdale was on his feet, mirroring Lambert. A smile still stuck on his face. ‘Bit Old Testament for us. Let me show you out, Mr Lambert.’

Lambert ordered a taxi back to the city centre and waited outside the church for it to arrive. On the journey back, he replayed the meeting with Terrence’s mother. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but what he recalled most now was the coldness of her house. The sparse religious decorations, the hostility from the small bespectacled woman. Lambert hadn’t sensed much love for her son from Sandra Vernon, only the bitterness and hatred she felt towards her ex-husband. Lambert tried to picture what it must have been like for Terrence to be raised by such a woman and found himself feeling a bit sorry for Terrence’s father even though he had never met the man.

Landsdale was less straight forward. He gave the outward impression of being approachable and helpful, but he had a touch of steel about him. He’d refused to be budged on Haydon’s father, even though Lambert was certain Landsdale knew where the man was. Something was going on with Sandra Vernon and Landsdale. They were hiding something whether it was relevant to Terrence Haydon’s death or not. Lambert was lifted by the thought. In his eyes, secrets were a sign of progress.

Back in the town centre, he checked into the hotel at the bottom of Park Street, ordering a room for Klatzky. He sent Klatzky a text instructing him to pick up the room card from reception. He logged onto The System and checked HOLMES for updates. He was mildly surprised to see his name mentioned. May had reported meeting him for lunch, and that she had warned him not to start his own investigation. She had posted a picture of him as well as one of Klatzky. No mention of their meeting tonight had been entered.

He read through the details of the previous Souljacker victims, starting way back with Clive Hale. May’s team had noted the transition in style of the killer from the first hurried job on Hale. How from Graham Jackett onwards, the killer had been much more meticulous from the eye removal to immaculate inscriptions carved onto his victim’s torsos. May had ordered a closer look at all the previous victims which made sense to Lambert. He was particularly interested in the connection between six of the victims who had all been members of a church of various denominations. Billy Nolan hadn’t attended church at any time during University but maybe there was some link from the past which had escaped the initial investigative team. Reading further, he realised that May would likely find out. She was due to meet the SIO on eight of the last ten Souljacker killings, Chief Superintendent Julian Hastings, tomorrow morning.

It didn’t take long to find an address for Terrence’s estranged father. Roger Haydon lived in Weston-super-Mare, a small seaside town twenty miles from Bristol. Roger Haydon had been on housing and unemployment benefit for most of his life. One of May’s team, DS Jack Bradbury, had questioned the man. Haydon had claimed not to have seen Terrence since he was a child.

Lambert ordered a late lunch from room service and called Tillman.

‘You’re not working for me, so you don’t need to call in and report,’ said Tillman.

‘I had an interesting chat with the DI on this case, Sarah May,’ said Lambert, ignoring him.

‘And I should be interested because?’

‘What’s my official classification, sir?’

‘You know that, Michael. Leave of absentia or some shit.’

‘She managed to obtain my personnel file. Well, parts of it. She thinks I’m a man of mystery.’

‘We all think that, Michael. Now if there is nothing else? We shouldn’t even be discussing this on the phone.’

‘It made me think,’ said Lambert.

‘A new one, but go on.’

‘About coming back.’

Tillman didn’t respond. Lambert’s leave had been out of necessity. The accident had left him in an induced coma, followed by months of physical and mental rehabilitation. Tillman had never visited him during that time, but Lambert still received a small salary despite the accident occurring out of work.

‘Sir?’ said Lambert.

‘You want to come back?’ said Tillman.

‘I want to know where I would stand.’

‘We’ll meet once you’ve finished playing detectives,’ said Tillman, hanging up.

Lambert placed the phone on the bedside table and collapsed into the softness of the bed. Talking to Tillman had deflated his new enthusiasm. He’d never blamed anyone else for what had happened to Chloe. He’d revelled in his guilt, replaying the incident time after time, day after day. He’d refused all offers of help, from his wife and extended family, from his work colleagues. He carried his child’s death around with him like a millstone, and it impacted on everything. His wife wanted nothing more to do with him, and Tillman knew he wouldn’t be ready for work until he had dealt with it.

A tightness filled his chest, and he sat upright fighting the sensation. He stumbled to the bathroom and drank heavily from the sink tap. Forgetting his guilt would be a betrayal of Chloe’s memory but maybe there was another way to honour her. It could never bring her back, and he could never be redeemed, but he needed to move forward with the case.