Читать книгу Dead Lucky - Matt Brolly, Matt Brolly - Страница 16

Chapter 7

Lambert alighted from the DLR at Canary Wharf station. Towering glass structures surrounded him on every side as he walked by the river. Kennedy had called him whilst he’d been on the train but he’d yet to check his voicemail. He was still suspicious of her earlier meeting with Tillman. There was something in the way she’d left Tillman’s office which had annoyed him. If the meeting had to do with anything about the case then Lambert should have been informed. It wasn’t proper protocol and Lambert had a distinct feeling that he wasn’t yet fully trusted by his old colleague and superior, Tillman.

There had been a number of discrepancies Tillman had helped him with on the Souljacker case, not least a dead body found in Lambert’s house. Tillman had questioned him extensively before allowing him to rejoin the NCA. He’d told Lambert it was the right time to return, but Lambert knew the man well enough not to take everything he said at face value.

The midday sun bounced off the glass panels and a drip of sweat tumbled down Lambert’s forehead. He wiped it away with a brush of his hand, for a moment feeling completely isolated. Work had helped divert his attention but still his thoughts returned to his wife and her newborn child. The thought of Chloe’s sister made him feel even more alone. He tried to shake the sense that Sophie would start a new life away from him and he would be left with his desolate bedsit and what remained of his career.

He walked through the revolving doors to the press building and after signing in took the lift to the fortieth floor. The doors pinged open to a hive of activity. A vast, open-plan workspace, filled with journalists working at their laptops and PCs. It was a stark contrast to the press rooms of old – the smoky, booze-fuelled workplaces where the hacks used to scratch out stories amongst the background of expletive banter. No one paid any attention as he walked across the office floor. He smirked as he passed a row of journalists working at stand-up desks, and knocked on an office door at the other end of the room.

A young woman, late twenties at most, opened the door and appraised him, assessing him in one quick glance as if she could see directly into his soul. ‘DCI Lambert?’ she said, holding out her hand.

Lambert shook hands, trying hard to hide his confusion.

‘Mia Helmer. You look surprised, Mr Lambert.’

‘Sorry, old habit. I’m ashamed to say I was expecting someone…’

‘More male?’ said the woman, showing him into her office.

‘Actually no. I was going to say, older, but I guess that’s not appropriate either.’

The woman took a seat behind a vast glass desk, adorned only by a laptop. Her face broke into a smile for the briefest of seconds before returning to her default look, which was an unreadable mask. ‘You wanted to speak to me about Eustace?’ she said pointing to a seat opposite.

‘Yes, thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I’m afraid it is really crucial that this conversation is off the record for the time being.’

Mia raised her eyebrows. Helmer was the crime editor for the paper, Sackville’s direct line manager. ‘So what do you have to tell me?’ she said, noncommittal.

‘I’m afraid Mr Sackville’s wife was found dead in her apartment yesterday evening.’

If the woman was surprised she hid it well. Lambert had met professional poker players who gave away more signs of emotion. She didn’t reply so he continued talking. ‘At the moment we’re treating the death as suspicious,’ he said, unable to blank out the images of Moira Sackville tied to a chair, her pale body leaking blood into the pool of black liquid by her ankles.

‘Well okay, this is the first I’ve heard of it so you must be doing something right. I imagine you think Eustace is involved somehow or you wouldn’t be here. Am I correct?’

Lambert was stunned by the woman’s coldness. ‘Yes and no. We don’t want this being publicised at the moment so I do have to insist it stays off record before I tell you any more details.’

‘So you’re offering me an exclusive?’

‘Something like that, but I need you to wait before you run the story.’ Lambert had only been in the office for five minutes but already he could understand how the woman had reached her senior position in such a short space of time. She had a natural authority about her. A cool charisma which he imagined helped her control even the most hardened of hacks.

‘Give me all the details and we can decide on a time for release. But I’ll tell you now, I won’t wait any longer than twenty-four hours – especially seeing as one of my journalists is involved.’

‘Fine,’ said Lambert. He was surprised that the story had yet to leak anyway. He told her all the details about Moira Sackville’s murder. How Eustace had been present, cuffed to one of the chairs and made to watch.

‘Christ,’ said Mia, losing her composure for a split second. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s in hospital. We have a police officer with him.’

‘You don’t think he…’

Lambert shook his head. ‘No, but obviously we can’t rule anything out completely yet.’

‘Who else knows?’

‘No one, apart from the professionals involved,’ said Lambert, doubting his own words. Matilda Kennedy had interviewed one of Moira’s friends so the chances were that the word was out already.

‘I need to run this,’ said Mia.

It was inevitable the story would be public in a matter of hours. ‘Not yet. Answer my questions and we’ll see what we can do.’

‘I’ll need to speak to Eustace as well.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Is he under arrest?’

‘No, but he’s under strict medical supervision. You wouldn’t be allowed. But work with me and I’ll let you know when he’s free to talk.’

‘What do you need to know?’

‘Everything you can give me on Eustace. What’s he been working on recently?’

‘Not much. Look, Eustace is a special guy. He’s very much respected here.’

‘But?’ said Lambert.

‘He hasn’t been submitting much copy of late. He’d told me he was working on a long term project. People trafficking in and out of London. He had a bee in his bonnet about some local businessman who he believed was working with a group from Croatia. All well and good, but he hasn’t submitted anything for us in nine months and yet we still pay him.’

‘Who was the local guy?’

Helmer looked at her laptop. It was clear she knew the answer and was debating whether to share the information with Lambert.

‘He was investigating a local businessman called Curtis Blake. From what I can ascertain, he is legit. That’s all I can tell you. If you want more details you’ll have to speak to him yourself.’

‘Anything else you can tell me about him? Is he particularly friendly with anyone in the office?’

‘We hardly ever saw him. I had the odd report of people seeing him in local bars but other than that he kept himself to himself over the last few years. There were rumours – rumours, mind you – about marriage problems. But people like to create stories about people they don’t regularly see, especially here.’

Lambert handed her his card. He didn’t believe her. He was sure Mia knew exactly what Eustace was up to, and the truth of any rumours. ‘Please let me know if you remember anything else.’

The editor nodded, dropping the card onto her desk. ‘Perhaps we can work together on this,’ she said. ‘I can send someone around to meet you.’

‘Once you’re ready to be more forthcoming, let me know,’ said Lambert. ‘Until then, I suggest you speak to our press office.’

He called Kennedy outside the newspaper offices. Her meeting with Prue McKenzie had been more of a success. She’d already arranged a meeting with Charles Robinson, a criminal barrister, at his chambers in Holborn.

Lambert caught the tube and arrived in Holborn before Kennedy. He waited for her in a coffee shop chain close to Holborn station.

He was halfway through his drink when she arrived. She nodded over and gestured with her hand, enquiring if he wanted another drink.

‘You looked pleased with yourself,’ he said, noting the spring in her walk as she approached.

‘It happens occasionally. How was your meeting with the editor?’

‘Unproductive. I think we can safely say the case is newsworthy now.’

Kennedy swept a loose strand of hair from her face. ‘That’ll please Tillman,’ she said.

‘Can’t be helped.’ The idea that they withhold details of the case from the press was ludicrous, considering the profession of Moira’s husband. ‘What do we know about this Charles Robinson?’

‘I’ve done a bit of research. Criminal defence work mainly, started his career working for the CPS.’

‘What do we know of his extracurricular appetites, other than those described by Mrs McKenzie?

‘Nothing yet. Devlin’s working on it, but I thought it best we go to the horse’s mouth first.’ Kennedy took a sip of her cappuccino. Lambert realised he didn’t know much about his colleague other than what he’d been told second-hand. She was clearly highly intelligent, and he’d already noticed a dry sense of humour. She was attractive in an unconventional way. Tall and wiry, she had pointed prominent features with deep-set hazel eyes. It was the hair which distinguished her. It was tied back now – lines of fiery red pulled tight, making her pale forehead more prominent.

‘Sip up,’ said Lambert, getting to his feet.

It was a short walk to Robinson’s chambers. Lunchtime was ending, reluctant workers returning to their offices bereft at having to leave the blazing sunshine. Kennedy followed a pace behind as they made the short walk. An immaculately attired man, mid-forties with short brown hair, greeted them as they entered the chambers. The man stood, and assessed them in one curious glance. ‘How may I help?’ he asked, his voice a resonant baritone.

‘DCI Lambert, DS Kennedy. We have an appointment with Charles Robinson.’

‘James Latchford, head clerk,’ said the man, surprising Lambert who had mistaken him for one of the barristers. Latchford glanced down at the folio on his desk and beamed a smile at them. ‘Yes, please take a seat and Mr Robinson will be with you shortly.’

Lambert paced the small reception area, admiring the bookcases lined with ancient legal texts, common law and statute books. He doubted the leather-backed tomes ever left their shelves, given that the printed words had all been codified and were available online. Still, they provided a decorative air of authority.

His concentration was diverted by a booming Welsh voice. ‘DCI Lambert?’

Lambert turned to face Charles Robinson. Dressed in a three piece suit, a silk tie pressed so tight into his neck it almost choked him, the man looked little over fifty. He had a mane of silver hair, and the type of smile you would expect to see in a glossy magazine.

‘And you must be DS Kennedy,’ said Robinson, turning his attention to Matilda.

‘Mr Robinson.’

‘Please, call me Charles. Shall we?’ He ushered them through a set of oak panelled doors towards his office. ‘Please sit, may I get you coffee, tea?’

‘No, thank you, Charles,’ said Lambert.

‘So, how may I help?’

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ said Matilda. They had agreed on the walk over that she would speak first.

‘Oh yes?’ said Robinson, the smile remaining, his eyes narrowing.

‘I’m afraid the body of Moira Sackville was found in her flat yesterday evening. She has been the victim of a suspected murder.’

Robinson’s face collapsed, and Lambert saw another side to the man. An older, scared Robinson, the façade of his professional self vanishing. ‘Moira? How? Why?’ he said, his voice whisper quiet. He turned away from them in his swivel chair, facing a bookcase which mirrored the one in the reception area.

Lambert gave him a moment. ‘How well did you know Mrs Sackville?’ he asked.

Robinson didn’t answer. He remained facing the bookcase. Lambert was about to ask again when the man dragged his hand across his face and turned back in their direction. ‘Sorry about that. This is quite a shock.’ His bright red face highlighted the faint creases in his complexion, ageing him by ten years. ‘How well did I know her? I knew her well. She is a good friend of Prue. Prue McKenzie. Sorry, Prue is a friend of the chambers, does a lot of work for charity. I met Moira through her at one of the functions. And her husband, Eustace,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘How is Eustace?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ said Lambert, not willing to divulge any more details at present.

‘How close were you to Moira, Mr Robinson?’ asked Kennedy.

Robinson linked his hands together, and stared at Kennedy. ‘I suppose you know something or you wouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘I would sincerely hope this doesn’t get out, for Eustace’s sake, but yes, Moira and I were lovers for a time.’

Lambert doubted the man’s concern was for Moira’s widower. ‘How long?’

‘Five years, on and off.’

‘How often did you see her?’ asked Kennedy, a coldness in her tone.

‘Listen, it was her choice. I never instigated anything, and would never contact her. I would only see her when she contacted me. That was the way it worked and I respected it.’

‘Do you mind me asking if you have a significant partner?’ asked Lambert.

Robinson frowned. ‘No. My wife died fifteen years ago and there has been no one serious since.’ He ran his hands through his hair, leaving a loose tuft sticking up from his scalp. ‘I don’t feel great about what happened. I don’t prey on other people’s wives as a rule. I’m afraid Moira wasn’t that happy with Eustace, and that was long before I came along. I didn’t steal her. She was obviously missing something in her life which I provided.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ said Kennedy.

Robinson clenched his hands together, his eyes darting upwards. ‘About a year ago.’

‘A year? You’re sure?’

‘Approximately, yes. I decided to end it. I’m afraid it had started to become quite tiresome.’

‘And how did Mrs Sackville respond to this news?’ asked Lambert.

‘She was distraught. I received the odd phone call. Tears, that sort of thing, but I am sure she got over it.’

Lambert thought about what Kennedy had told him. The S and M Prue McKenzie had reluctantly detailed. ‘No one is morally judging you, Mr Robinson. Our concern is to track Moira’s killer. I’m afraid the crime scene was not a pleasant one.’

Robinson took in a number of shallow breaths. ‘Do I really need to hear this?’

‘I’ll only go into as much details as necessary. There was a home invasion. Mrs Sackville was handcuffed to a chair,’ said Lambert.

Robinson put his hand to his mouth. As a criminal barrister he would have heard much worse, as a defence barrister would have defended those accused of such acts. Either it was a show, or he was genuinely distressed by his lover’s death. ‘We believe the intruder cut open her wrists and that Mrs Sackville slowly bled to death.’

‘Slowly?’ said Robinson, his voice a squawk of anguish.

Lambert stared at the man, searching for any clues that he was play acting.

‘Eustace?’ said Robinson.

Lambert glanced at Matilda, her face impassive. ‘He was made to watch.’

‘He wasn’t hurt?’

‘He was cuffed to a chair as well.’

Robinson turned his attention towards the ceiling, seemingly picturing the scene. ‘They let him go?’

‘They?’ said Matilda.

‘Him, her, them?’

‘Mr Sackville confirmed there was just the one intruder,’ said Lambert.

‘Why did they hurt Moira, and not Eustace?’ Robinson was more focused, quizzing them as if they were on trial.

‘That’s what we need to find out. Mr Robinson, this is a delicate matter but can you elaborate on your relationship with Moira Sackville?’

‘Elaborate?’

Lambert hesitated, thinking how best to broach the subject, when Matilda interjected. ‘Did you and Mrs Sackville engage in any unusual sexual practices?’

Robinson flushed red. Lambert initially thought he was embarrassed but soon realised it was something else.

‘And how the hell is that any of your business?’ he asked, his booming voice heavily accented.

‘It links in with our investigation,’ said Matilda, unmoved by the barrister’s protestations.

‘Links in with your investigation? Why, because she was tied to a chair?’

‘Cuffed,’ said Lambert.

‘What a tenuous, flimsy link! Who told you this?’ said Robinson, the answer dawning on him. ‘Prue McKenzie, what a surprise. I knew Moira would tell her, though I warned her not to, judgemental and no discretion.’

‘I thought you were good friends with Mrs McKenzie?’ said Kennedy.

Lambert was struck at how quickly Robinson had unravelled. He’d revealed more of himself in the last thirty seconds than he had throughout the rest of the interview.

‘No one is good friends with her, except maybe Moira.’ He shook his head, as if he’d forgotten about the death of his lover. ‘You think she does all that charity work for the good causes? Don’t make me laugh. It’s all a show, a way to ingratiate herself. I bet she never puts a penny in out of her own pocket, just uses the money raised to buy the fancy caterers and party planners so she can look good amongst her friends.’

‘But she introduced you?’ said Lambert, keen to exploit Robinson in his emotional state.

‘Not really. We were both at one of her parties and we met. We introduced ourselves.’ His face was still red, his breathing laboured. He sat back in his chair, the colour draining from his face. ‘I’m not going to discuss what we did. I won’t let you sully her memory.’

Lambert nodded. ‘I will need a note of your whereabouts last night.’

Robinson’s eyes widened as he adopted a sardonic tone. ‘It’s always a pleasure helping you guys out. I was at an Inn’s dinner. I was there till gone midnight. I ordered a taxi. Latchford will give you the number of the firm we use so you can check with the driver.’

Robinson stood, giving Lambert and Kennedy their cue to do the same. ‘Listen, I’m sorry if I lost my temper,’ said Robinson, to Kennedy in particular. ‘I will assist in any way I can.’ Lambert was intrigued by the barrister’s sudden changes in behaviour. The news of Moira’s death had clearly affected him.

It was raining as they left the chambers; a sudden downpour had reached the drains, leaving a faint sulphurous odour in the air. ‘Verify what he told us,’ said Lambert, as he heard a shout from behind him.

The figure of Charles Robinson jogged towards them, his face flushed from the exertion. ‘I remembered something,’ he said, his breath coming in rapid bursts between words. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing but thought you should know. A former client of mine used the same MO, similar at least, to what you’ve just told me.’

Lambert didn’t respond. He took out his notebook, waited for Robinson to reveal himself.

‘Obviously, I can’t tell you anything confidential but it reached the court. May I?’ he said, looking at Lambert’s notepad.

Lambert handed it over and Robinson scribbled some words onto the paper. ‘You’ll find everything there,’ said Robinson, writing R v. Whitfield CJ (2008) on the piece of paper.

‘You represented Whitfield?’ asked Lambert.

Robinson nodded.

‘Verdict?’

Robinson pursed his lips. ‘Not guilty.’