DCI Michael Lambert is back…

When a woman is murdered, the twisted killer forcing her husband to watch her slow and painful death, DCI Michael Lambert knows that his next case might be his toughest yet.

And when a second set of killings are discovered, with exactly the same MO, the race is on to find the lethal sociopath before he strikes again.

But Lambert never expected to receive an anonymous call from the killer. This time, it’s personal: if Lambert doesn’t find the murderer soon, his own loved ones will be next…

The gripping second novel in a thrilling new crime series by Matt Brolly. Perfect for fans of Tony Parsons, Lee Child and Angela Marsons.

Also available by Matt Brolly

Dead Eyed

Dead Lucky

Matt Brolly

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Matt Brolly 2016

Matt Brolly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474046275

Version date: 2018-09-20

Following his law degree, where he developed an interest in criminal law, MATT BROLLY completed his Masters in Creative Writing at Glasgow University. He reads widely across all genres, and is currently working on the third in his Michael Lambert thriller series. Matt lives in London with his wife and their two young children. You can find out more about Matt at his website MattBrolly.co.uk or by following him on twitter: @MattBrollyUK

Thanks again to so many people who have helped in the writing of Dead Lucky:

The whole team at HQ Digital for their support and encouragement. Special thanks to my wonderful Editor, Charlotte Mursell, for her insight and unending support.

All the amazing bloggers and reviewers for promoting Dead Eyed. Too many to name, but sincere thanks for each and every review. So many great blogs out there!

Alexia Capsomidis for her help promoting Dead Eyed, and the many sales she secured!

Michael Brolly, for lending his first name again.

All my friends and family who were so supportive with their feedback on Dead Eyed, and their continued support.

Ann Eardley, for her exemplary proofreading skills.

My children Freya and Hamish for being there.

And as always, Alison, for her expert eye and unwavering belief.

For my Nan, Eileen Burnell

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

He tried to stretch. His back was pushed tight against the wall, his covered head snagged between two coat hooks. Every other breath brought with it the stench of foot odour and moth bombs.

He’d been in the flat for three hours, the last two of which had been in the wardrobe. Preparation was important. The woman was predictable, she would return after work, the husband less so. His behaviour was erratic of late. He’d been spending more time at the bar than at work.

He stretched once more, savouring being alone, going over the plan again and again until it was so embedded in his mind that it was almost a memory.

The woman arrived on time. His pulse didn’t alter as he listened to her move around the room, the strange noises she made, thinking she was alone.

Eventually she left the room. Realising he’d been holding his breath, he let it out in a rush, his lungs filling with the trapped, musty air of his hiding cell.

It was another two hours before the husband arrived. He heard the front door click open, the heavy steps as the husband walked into the living room, the muted voices as the couple exchanged pleasantries.

He was about to leave his confines when he heard the woman enter the en-suite bathroom. He edged the wardrobe open. The bathroom door was ajar and he tiptoed across the bedroom floor in time to see the woman pulling up her garments.

As she left the room, he placed his right hand on her shoulder. She jumped, and rounded on him thinking he was her husband. She stared at him for a second, her mouth agape. A look of confusion crept across her face and for a heartbeat it was as if she’d been expecting his arrival. Then, realising what was happening was all too real, she went to scream.

With a practised move, he reached out and covered her mouth before she could give sound to her situation.

Chapter 2

Lambert sensed the decay as he entered the building.

He’d been here before.

Inside, the cloying stench of antiseptic and bleach did little to mask the subtle odours of illness and death which permeated from the walls of the hollow reception area.

He knew where he was going, he’d visited the same ward on numerous occasions many years ago. His body guided him along the route without him having to think, a homing instinct he’d thought long extinguished. He tried to ignore the people he passed. An elderly man, wisps of dry grey hair atop a wrinkled skull, wheeling a bag full of yellowing liquid which seeped into his veins. An obese teenage girl, pushed along in a wheelchair by two similar sized youths, her plastered leg protruding in the air like a weapon. And finally a man he’d hoped to avoid, leaving the lift as Lambert was about to enter.

The man, immaculate in a pinstriped suit and coiffured hair, froze. Lambert had to suppress a smile as the colour literally drained from the man’s face. His healthy St Tropez tan faded into a ghost-like white.

‘Michael,’ said the man, holding out his hand.

Lambert ignored the outstretched limb, not yet ready to be fully grown up about the situation. He entered the lift and turned to watch Jeremy Taylor, partner of Price Barker Solicitors, shake himself as if from a daze and walk away.

‘Michael Lambert,’ he said, into the box outside the ward. ‘I’m here to see Sophie Lambert.’ He remembered a time twelve years ago when he’d said the very same thing into what looked like the very same box. Only then he’d been visiting on happier terms.

The screams started as soon as he was buzzed into the ward, the sound of tortured women, flesh being torn. The nurses’ desk was empty. Lambert considered walking the corridors in search of Sophie but didn’t want to risk intruding on the other patients. Eventually, a smiling nurse gave him directions to Sophie’s room. The woman beamed at him as if this should be the greatest day of his life.

He ambled down the corridor, debating whether or not to turn and flee the scene, until he reached the entrance to Sophie’s room.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the threshold. For a time he just stood there dumbstruck, forgetting to breathe. Sophie sat upright in bed, cheeks pinched red, a tiny figure clamped to her breast. Smiling, she beckoned him over.

It was too late to leave. He took a seat next to her bed. ‘How did it go?’ he asked, not knowing what else to say.

Lambert had been virtually estranged from his wife, Sophie, for the last three years following the death of their daughter, Chloe, though they had continued sharing a house together. During that time Sophie had had a brief affair with Jeremy Taylor, the solicitor Lambert had just encountered, who was the father of the child his wife was holding.

The child released itself from Sophie with a smacking sound and looked in Lambert’s direction. ‘Do you want to hold her?’ asked Sophie, as unsure about the situation as he was.

‘No. Thank you. I’m okay.’

Tears welled in Sophie’s eyes. ‘This little thing is Chloe’s sister,’ she whispered, stroking the baby’s head.

Lambert choked back his own tears. The baby was the closest thing there would ever be to Chloe but there was no avoiding the fact that she wasn’t his. He poured a beaker of water, taking some time to think. ‘Do you have a name for her?’ he asked, his voice coming out as a squawk – like an adolescent boy’s.

‘I wanted to call her Jane.’ Sophie hesitated, looked down at the baby for support. ‘If you will give me permission, Jane Chloe.’

Lambert looked away, forcing back tears, picturing his little girl before the accident. Her curious smile and unending joy for the world, and how he had destroyed it all by losing control of his car. He didn’t know if it was a good idea giving this new child Chloe’s name. He didn’t want her to be haunted by her dead sister, or for her to grow up feeling she was a replacement, but he knew Sophie would never ever let her feel that way. ‘If you think that is best,’ he said.

‘What do you think, Michael?’

‘I think it would be wonderful,’ he said, darting his hand across his eyes, turning to face them. The child looked back at him as Chloe had done all those years before.

He left ten minutes later, refusing to be overwhelmed by his growing sense of loneliness. He’d left the family home three months earlier, informing Sophie that it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to stay. He’d even discussed divorce proceedings with her but she’d wanted to get through the pregnancy before making any decisions. Although he was happy for her, he knew he should have been the father of that little girl back in the ward. As he took the lift, he envisaged a future without Sophie. He imagined her raising Jane without him.

His vision blurred as he entered the main lobby of the hospital. Fiery lights danced in front of his eyes. The dizzying colours – flickers of burning ember, a multitude of shades and sizes – signified the start of a hallucinatory episode. From research on the internet he’d self-diagnosed his condition as a form of hallucinatory narcolepsy. It was the same type of episode he’d suffered when driving Chloe.

The episodes had occurred more often in the last few months, ever since Sophie’s pregnancy and the Souljacker case. The trigger was usually a lack of sleep, or stress. At the moment, he was suffering from both.

He sat down on a bench, the material cold and hard against his flesh, and closed his eyes. He told himself he was in a good place. The episodes normally occurred at home in bed, a smooth precursor to sleep. Knowing it was unwise to fight, he lay his head against the rough textured wall and fell asleep.

‘Sir, sir.’ The hand pulled at his shoulder, the accent foreign. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I need to clean here.’

Lambert darted awake and took in his surroundings. He was still in the hospital. He checked his watch. He’d been asleep for three hours.

‘Sorry, sir,’ repeated the cleaner, switching on a floor polisher which whirred into life with a deafening drone.

Lambert stood and stretched. The place had thinned out with normal visiting hours over. Lonely patients walked the floors like ghosts, occasionally passed by a hurrying doctor or nurse. The three hours had refreshed him and had evaporated, for a time, his worries over Sophie and the new child. It was eleven p.m. He considered calling Sarah, but decided it was too late. She would either be sleeping, or out working on the case. Either way, he wouldn’t know what to tell her. He didn’t fully understand how he felt about the situation at the moment, and was in no mood to analyse his feelings. Knowing he wouldn’t get back to sleep that evening, there was little option but to return to work.

Lambert had resumed his position within the National Crime Agency two months previously, following his unofficial pursuit and capture of the notorious serial killer, dubbed the Souljacker. Since returning, he’d been working on an international drugs case. The case had proved challenging, and there was still months of work ahead.

Lambert was part of a small specialised team, his NCA team working with the Met’s joint Organised Crime Partnership. So far they had arrested a number of small time dealers, and inroads were slowly being made into the main distributors.

Lambert caught the tube to Westminster and made the short walk to the NCA’s headquarters, the June night air still thick with heat from the day.

His office was deserted. Lambert often survived on three to four hours’ sleep a night so was often alone in the neon-lit open-plan office. He opened up The System, an unofficial amalgamated database of police computer systems, traffic systems, CCTV images, and social media back ends. The System had been created for the now defunct organisation called The Group and was only available for select officers within the NCA. He was about to log in when the office doors exploded open.

‘Just the person,’ said the rotund bulldog-like man who had barged through the doors as if they were an unnecessary obstacle.

Chief Superintendent Glenn Tillman stood in front of him, hands on hips like some ageing superhero. Tillman had headed up The Group until it was disbanded six months ago and had recruited Lambert back into the NCA.

‘Sir?’

‘Sit,’ said Tillman. ‘Something important has come up.’

Lambert, who was already sitting, swivelled his chair around. ‘I was just about to log in.’

Tillman pulled a second chair over. ‘The drugs case? No, I want you to pass that over. Give your workload to Bryant. I need you on something else.’

He handed Lambert a piece of paper. Lambert turned it over and read an address in Dulwich.

‘You know the journalist, Eustace Sackville?’

Lambert nodded. He’d met the man, a crime specialist on a national broadsheet, on a number of occasions.

‘His wife’s just been murdered and the case has been assigned to us. I want you to work with Kennedy. Get down there straight away and take the case over. The body was found three hours ago so you better be quick. An Inspector Wright is at the scene at the moment but knows it’s passing to us.’

‘That must have gone down well.’

Tillman shrugged.

‘Why us?’ asked Lambert, suspecting the truth.

‘You know the sort of information Sackville has access to. We want the best on this and your name came up as someone suitable to lead the case.’

Lambert nodded.

‘One more thing,’ said Tillman, handing Lambert an iPad. ‘Moira Sackville,’ he said, pointing to a picture of sixty-year-old woman bound to a chair.

Lambert flicked through to a second image. The lifeless figure of Moira Sackville, drained of colour, slash marks on each wrist, a puddle of blood by her ankles.

Tillman rubbed his chin. Lambert had known Tillman for ten years. In that time, the only sign of insecurity he’d ever seen in the man was the odd propensity of rubbing his chin in times of stress.

‘It took some time for Mrs Sackville to bleed out…’ said Tillman, lowering the volume of his voice as Lambert continued scrolling through the images until he reached a picture of a second chair, empty save for two binds hanging loose from the armrests. ‘… and her husband was made to watch every minute of it.’

Chapter 3

Detective Sergeant Matilda Kennedy was waiting for him at the crime scene, loitering outside the police cordon like an over-interested member of the public. She wore denim jeans, and a dark jacket over a t-shirt. Her red hair was hung loose on her shoulders, and Lambert wondered if she’d been on a night out when the call had come in.

‘Sir,’ she said, by means of greeting.

‘You haven’t been in yet?’ asked Lambert.

‘Thought I’d better wait for you. The SOCOs haven’t cleared the scene yet, and I believe there is a pissed off inspector on the warpath.’

Lambert was sure he saw her eyes sparkle at the last comment. He hadn’t worked directly with the young sergeant before but had heard only good reports. Apparently she was a sharp officer with a keen eye for detail. ‘I better go speak to him now,’ said Lambert, spotting DI Wright beyond the cordon. He showed the waiting uniformed officer his warrant card and scrambled beneath the tape.

‘James,’ said Lambert, offering his hand.

‘Ah, DCI Lambert. I hear you’re taking over my case,’ said Wright, shaking the proffered hand.

‘What can I say? Orders.’

‘Orders,’ mimicked Wright, resigned to the situation. ‘You up to speed?’

‘To a certain extent. Where is Sackville now?’

‘He’s been escorted to hospital for a check. Suffering from shock, unsurprisingly.’

It was the same hospital Sophie was staying in. ‘How did he manage to call it in?’ Lambert had listened to the 999 call on the way over. Sackville’s haunted voice, matter-of-factly informing the operator that his wife had been murdered.

‘We haven’t managed to get any details from him. You’ll see the set-up when you’re let upstairs. He had marks to his wrists consistent with being handcuffed and tied. He mumbled something about being untied. It’s possible the killer let him go so he could call it in.’

It was another hour before the SOCOs released the flat. Lambert had a sense of déjà vu as he viewed the scene, having seen the images on Tillman’s phone. The incident had taken place in the Sackville’s dining room. Lambert studied the two chairs, facing each other, and imagined the horrific nature of what had taken place. He pictured Eustace Sackville begging for mercy from the killer, offering himself in place of his wife; the look of terror on Moira Sackville’s face, seeing her husband’s pleading eyes. The despair and loss on both their faces as her life faded away.

‘Any sign of a break in?’ asked Lambert.

Wright shook his head. We’ve checked the locks on the door, the windows, even the loft. The killer was either invited in, or was already in the house.

The dining room was humid and stuffy, yet Lambert still felt a chill as he looked around. ‘She bled out from her wrists,’ he said, thinking aloud rather than asking for clarity.

‘No other noticeable marks on her so far. The pathologist is pretty sure the wounds to her wrists are the cause of death. Obviously we’ll know more after the autopsy,’ said Wright.

‘Have we ruled out suicide?’ said Kennedy.

‘I haven’t ruled anything out so far,’ said Lambert. He pushed the chair where Moira had sat, noting it was lighter than he’d imagined from the pictures on the iPad. He tested the chair where Eustace had supposedly sat. Unless his legs had been tied, the man should have been able to force himself up from the sitting position. Whether this meant anything was yet to be determined. ‘I take it we’ve requested CCTV footage from the surrounding areas.’

‘Yes, I’ve done most of your job for you,’ said Wright, adding a mischievous, ‘sir,’ as Lambert fixed him with a hard stare.

‘Thanks for your help, James. I’ll call if we need anything else.’

They shook hands and Wright left.

‘He seems happy about this,’ said Kennedy, deadpan.

‘Had any dealing with Eustace Sackville before?’ asked Lambert.

‘No. I did a quick check on the way over. He’s been a bit quiet recently. No articles that I can find in the last nine months. I checked with the paper and he’s still on staff,’ said Kennedy, brushing a loose strand of red hair from her face.

‘Initial thoughts?’ asked Lambert.

‘Presumptuous to look beyond Mr Sackville at the moment. No sign of a break in. I’d be interested to see the insurance policy on his wife. Could have been a poor attempt at suicide, could have been an elaborate set-up by Mr Sackville. Too many unknowns, as Tillman would say.’

Lambert was impressed by Kennedy’s quick thinking. Although she was an experienced officer, most of her previous work had been organised crime. She would have seen murder scenes before, but nothing like this. Tillman’s team didn’t generally get involved in crimes of this nature. Normally something like this would be left to the Met’s murder squads, or major incident teams. The Group had been formed to work on more covert operations, and since its disbandment Lambert had noticed their work was becoming more streamlined. Despite what Tillman had said about him being requested from above, it was hard not to feel that working on the case was some sort of demotion or, if not that, possibly a test to see if he was truly ready to return to work.

‘I’m going to see Sackville. Tillman is setting up an incident room. Get the team together for a seven a.m. meet, and liaise with DI Wright over the CCTV footage. I want to know about everyone who set foot in this building in the last twenty-four hours.’

Lambert caught a taxi back to the hospital. He sat in the back and listened to Eustace Sackville’s 999 call on his headphones again, searching for evidence that the man had been lying. His voice was whispered, but deep in tone. Lambert remembered Sackville as a smoker, and the years of nicotine had affected his vocal chords. ‘It’s my wife, she’s been murdered.’ The words were hauntingly simple, Sackville’s voice drained of emotion – as if the fight had left him.

The operator went through the preliminaries, ascertaining location and if the intruder was still there.

‘I watched her die,’ added Sackville. ‘He tied me up and made me watch her die. There was nothing I could do.’

The rest of the conversation, broken with sobs and a deep guttural coughing from Sackville, was unintelligible.

The hospital was even more desolate than before. Lambert wandered the labyrinthine corridors, trying not to think about Sophie who was asleep several floors above. He flashed his warrant card to the two uniformed police officers sitting outside Sackville’s room.

‘We’ve been told he can’t be interviewed until morning, sir,’ said one of the pair, a nervous looking officer who looked barely old enough to have completed his GCSEs.

‘No one’s spoken to him?’

‘A member of Inspector Wright’s team did, sir, but by all accounts he wasn’t making any sense.’

‘Who’s the doctor in charge?’

‘Dr Nitesh Patel. I’m afraid he’s gone home,’ said the constable, surprising Lambert by blushing.

‘He’s been sedated,’ added the other constable.

‘Great.’ It was five a.m. and the only witness to Moira Sackville’s death was comatose. ‘I need to know the exact second he wakes or the doctor makes an appearance. Do not let anyone other than medical staff into that room. Clear?’

‘Sir.’

Lambert walked the streets looking for somewhere to buy coffee. He found a petrol station with one of the newer coffee machines which used real beans. He called Kennedy, wincing as he sipped the bitter liquid.

‘Everyone is ready at the incident room,’ she said.

‘Ok, I’m going to delay the meeting until Sackville is lucid. Any news on the CCTV?’

‘There are two cameras on the front of the Sackvilles’ building, and more along the street. We’re going through the footage now but I’m afraid it’s a busy place. Lots of people coming and going.’

‘You don’t need to be told to search for anything unusual. Focus on people who have to be buzzed into the building rather than those who have keys, though don’t rule anyone out. Hopefully we’ll know more when I speak to Sackville.’

Chapter 4

Lambert returned to the hospital just as the coffee shop was opening and ordered his second Americano of the day. The place was coming alive with people, medical staff returning for the day shift, shop workers and ancillary staff, patients escaping the prison-like confines of their ward. Sophie was due to leave today and Lambert scanned the growing crowds, desperate to avoid bumping into Jeremy Taylor. He burnt his tongue on the coffee as he retraced his steps to where Sackville was currently residing. One of the uniformed constables had been replaced by a plain clothes officer. She was accompanied outside Sackville’s door by the nervous sounding officer who had spoken to him last night. Both stood as Lambert walked towards them, Lambert shaking his hand free of the hot liquid he’d spilt.

‘DC Shah,’ said the woman, almost standing to attention.

‘I remember you, Shah,’ said Lambert. ‘It’s only been a few months, what do you take me for?’ He’d worked briefly with the young detective during the Souljacker case. She’d assisted him in recreating the image of one of the suspects, a man known only as Campbell. Shah smiled, then, unsure if he was joking or not, cut the smile off abruptly.

‘Dr Patel is in with Sackville now,’ said the nervous sounding officer, who’d grown in confidence since the arrival of his co-worker. Fearing Lambert was about to reprimand him he continued, ‘He’s just gone in this second, we were about to call you.’

‘Take a seat, both of you.’ Lambert peered through a small rectangular window into Sackville’s room, the large figure of the journalist momentarily obscured by the suited figure of the doctor currently examining him. ‘Any other visitors?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What has Dr Patel told you?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ said Shah. ‘He ignored us, didn’t even acknowledge our presence.’

‘Well don’t let him hurt your feelings, Constable. What does he know about the incident?’

‘He was informed about Mrs Sackville, last night,’ said the nervous officer. ‘There was no way of avoiding it. Mr Sackville was pretty incoherent at the time. After we told Dr Patel he decided to sedate him.’

The doctor left the room five minutes later. He didn’t acknowledge Lambert’s presence either and was about to walk off down the corridor when Lambert touched his shoulder.

‘Dr Patel?’

‘Yes?’ said the man, turning to face Lambert, a look of distaste etched on his face.

‘Detective Chief Inspector, Michael Lambert. I’m leading the case on Mrs Sackville’s suspicious death.’ The doctor shrugged his shoulders as if Lambert’s position was of no interest to him. ‘I need to speak to Mr Sackville.’

‘Sorry, not possible.’

Lambert was experienced enough not to lose his temper. He’d come across jobsworths like Patel many times before. ‘I’m afraid it’s imperative I speak to Mr Sackville. He was the last person to see his wife alive. It is possible he witnessed a murder.’

‘Mr Sackville has suffered serious mental and physical pain,’ said Patel, walking away once more.

Lambert tried to placate the man. ‘I understand completely, Doctor, but you must understand the urgency of the situation. If we are to have any chance of catching the person responsible for Mrs Sackville’s death then we need to act as quickly as possible and we can’t act at all until we hear what Mr Sackville has to say. I promise, five minutes at most. You can stop the interview at any time.’

The doctor nodded, considering what Lambert had said as if he was the person truly in charge of the situation.

‘Five minutes,’ he agreed, ‘but you must stop if Mr Sackville becomes agitated in any way.’

‘Thank you, Dr Patel. Before we go in, can you give me an update on Mr Sackville’s condition?’

The doctor sighed, as if Lambert was asking him for an impossible favour. Lambert placed his hands inside his trouser pockets and clenched his fists.

‘He was admitted with shock and severe trauma to his lower arms and wrists.’

‘Can you give me some more detail on his wrist injuries?’

Patel moved his lips as if there was a bad smell in the room. ‘We had to treat and strap his wrists. There were severe ligature marks and tissue damage on both sides. We’ve x-rayed him. There were no broken bones and I’m confident there will be no lasting damage. It’s his mental state I’m most worried about. I’ve called in a clinical psychologist, who’ll be here shortly.’

‘I’m sure you don’t like to hypothesise, Dr Patel, but if you were to guess, what would you say caused the injuries?’

‘You’re correct on that front, Mr Lambert. I’d say the marks are consistent with something being tied or strapped onto his wrists – but the pressure must have been immense considering the damage caused.’

‘Could it have been rope, binds, handcuffs even?’

‘Again I’m guessing, but the injuries are consistent with handcuffs of some sort. There were no burn marks which might result from the use of rope.’

‘You’ve seen this sort of thing before?’ asked Lambert.

‘There’s not much I haven’t seen. Shall we?’

The doctor opened the door to Eustace Sackville’s room. Lambert recognised the figure of the man lying in the bed, despite the unfamiliar context. He had come across Sackville on numerous occasions over the last couple of decades. Lambert remembered him as jovial, gregarious and with a respectful streak he hadn’t always encountered with others of Sackville’s profession. Now he looked like a pale, empty shell, years older than he should have been.

Then the man set his eyes on Lambert and something changed. There was still a sparkle there, a lightness to his piercing green eyes. ‘DCI Lambert,’ the man croaked, ‘they’re pulling out the big guns for me then.’

‘Mr Sackville, it’s good to see you again. I’m sorry it’s in such awful circumstances.’

Sackville turned his head away in dismissal. ‘None of this formality bullshit, Lambert. Call me Eustace or Sackville, anything but Mr Sackville. Could you get me some water?’

Lambert picked up the glass jug to the side of Sackville’s bed and filled two plastic beakers.

‘Mr Lambert won’t take up much of your time,’ said Dr Patel.

Sackville waved the doctor away with a swipe of his hand. ‘This needs to be done.’ He took a sip of water, droplets spilling onto his chin which was decorated with specks of stubble. ‘Sit then. Ask me what you have to.’

Lambert turned the chair to face him. He had to crane his neck to look up at the reclined figure. Dr Patel continued his sentry, arms folded at the edge of the bed.

‘I understand what you’re going through, Eustace. I know it won’t be easy, but in your own words can you tell me everything that happened last night.’

Sackville nodded. ‘I guess you actually do have some idea of what I’m going through,’ he said. Sackville had reported on a number of Lambert’s cases in the past and knew about the death of his daughter. Sackville took another sip of water. ‘He was already in the house,’ he said, the initial lightness Lambert had seen in his eyes disappearing, his face vacant as he recalled what had happened. ‘At least I think he was. I came out of the bathroom and he was there. He had a knife, that’s all it was, but it was pushed tight against Moira’s throat.’ The sound of grinding teeth filled the muted room. ‘I hadn’t heard a doorbell so I’m sure Moira hadn’t buzzed anyone in – so he must have been there all along.’

‘Can you describe him?’ asked Lambert.

Sackville’s eyes darted to the ceiling. ‘Picture your clichéd version of a cat burglar and you’ve got him. Dressed head to toe in black. Mask instead of a balaclava. Leather I think. Even his eyes looked black through the slits in the mask.’

‘Height? Build?’

‘Six foot, six foot one. At one point he leant back on our bookcase, his head was level with the second from top shelf. You measure that, you’ll get your height. It’s funny what you think of in the circumstances, how your mind distracts you. He had a strong looking build, slim. When he cuffed me on the chair I could sense his strength.’

‘Tell me what happened prior to that?’

‘He told me to pull two chairs over,’ Sackville hesitated, rubbing his neck. ‘He told me to make sure they were facing, then he told me to sit.’

Lambert shuddered. Two months ago, he’d been in a similar position. Tied to a chair, a co-worker tied to a chair opposite. He’d thought he’d overcome the memories of that time, but now he wasn’t sure.

‘Mr Lambert, I’m not sure we should continue,’ said Dr Patel.

Lambert shook himself from his reverie, and rounded on the man. ‘We are continuing,’ he said, turning back to Sackville. ‘Continue, Eustace.’

‘He told me to sit in the chair facing the window, to put my hands behind me. He said any movement towards him, however slight, would result in Moira’s instant death followed by mine. I thought it was a simple house burglary, Michael. I thought the guy had messed up, got his timings wrong. I just thought he was going to tie us up, take whatever he wanted and then leave us alone. I couldn’t see his face, so why…’

For the first time since Lambert had arrived, Sackville lost his composure. It was miraculous he’d kept it together so long.

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Lambert. ‘I’d have done exactly the same thing in your situation.’

‘I doubt that. He pulled out a pair of cuffs. He manoeuvred Moira so she was behind me and he made her cuff me, my hands behind my back. He then told Moira to sit opposite me. As soon as I was secure he seemed to relax. He came over and pulled the cuffs tight to my wrists. He kept pushing them into my skin until he could push no more. Christ, I screamed like a bloody child.’

Sackville wiped his sleeve across his eyes. ‘Moira screamed out for him to stop, and for some reason he did. Jesus.’

Lambert knew time was short. Recalling the incident was naturally having a great impact on Sackville, and Lambert feared he would break down again and that Patel would be forced to sedate him. ‘Have some more water.’

‘Thanks.’ Sackville coughed. ‘It’s the not knowing. That fucking bastard paced the room, and refused to answer our questions about what he wanted. I think he was plucking up the courage to do what…’

‘Tell me,’ said Lambert.

Sackville swayed forwards and back on his pillow, his neck and facial muscles so tense they looked liable to snap at any moment. ‘He stopped and looked at me, and I thought he was about to attack. He did, only it wasn’t me.’

‘This can’t continue,’ said Patel, almost as agitated as Sackville.

Lambert held up his hand. ‘Please go on, Eustace.’

‘He gagged her. It was fucking pitiful. I pulled at my cuffs, and they hurt even more, but I just kept fighting. The look in her eyes, Michael. You can’t imagine. I saw everything. Fear, pain, loss, accusation. I saw our whole fucking life together disappearing and I was helpless to do anything about it. She was pleading to me, Michael. She wanted me to help her.’ Sackville shook his head. ‘You’ll never fucking know.’ He began sobbing, and Lambert had to look away as Patel went to intervene.

‘Please, Eustace, just tell me,’ said Lambert, staring at the hospital-white wall of Sackville’s room.

‘This is finished,’ said Patel.

Lambert turned and looked back at Sackville, knowing he’d already pushed the man too far.

‘It’s okay,’ said Sackville, trying to compose himself. ‘He cut her, left wrist then right. It was almost tender, that sick bastard. Moira saw the blood and she disappeared. She didn’t look at me any more. I kept asking him, why, fucking why? I told him to kill me instead but he just sat on one of the other chairs staring at me, ignoring my screams. Watching.’

Sackville’s heart monitor began beeping rapidly, his heartbeat rocketing to one hundred and ten.

‘Enough,’ shouted Patel, pressing an alarm button.

As two nurses entered the room, Lambert called out. ‘Who was he, Eustace?’

‘I don’t know, Lambert. You need to tell Prue. Prue McKenzie,’ said Sackville, his voice a whisper as one of the nurses pulled a mask over his mouth and Lambert reluctantly left the room.

Chapter 5

‘You must be doing something right. I’ve just received my first complaint about you.’

Lambert was sitting in Tillman’s office, the blinds pulled down. ‘Let me guess, Dr Patel?’

Tillman nodded. ‘Was it worth it?’

‘Unless he’s an Oscar level actor, then we can rule out Eustace Sackville. Directly, at least.’

Tillman, who was leaning back on his swivel chair, raised his eyebrows.

‘But I do think there was something he wasn’t telling me.’

Tillman’s chair groaned as he pulled himself upright. ‘You think he arranged it somehow?’

‘No, but I’m not ruling anything out yet. Why are we working on this, sir? Even if it’s not a routine murder it’s not really our department.’

‘I told you, lots of interested parties on this one. You were requested. It seems your work on the Souljacker business has made you something of a celebrity. It needs to be contained though. I don’t want it leaking to the press.’

‘Really? Have you informed the uniforms guarding his room?’

‘Yes, and the friends you’ve been making at the hospital.’

‘Sackville’s a journalist.’

‘No press,’ interrupted Tillman.

‘Whatever you say. What is my team on this?’

‘You’ll be the SIO and head our team. We’ll use outside help where necessary. You’ll be needing this.’ Tillman handed him a policy book.

Lambert smirked. Tillman was not renowned for following the rules. When they’d been part of The Group, the majority of the investigations had been so secretive that there was little or no record of them.

‘You can laugh, but there is a lot of attention on this so do it right.’

Lambert left the room, still confused as to the importance given to the case. His team were assembled in the office, studying their laptops and case notes. Kennedy approached. ‘How did it go with Mr Sackville?’

He relayed the conversation, noticing how intently Kennedy listened, her wide green eyes rarely diverting from his. ‘Shall I get everyone together?’ she asked.

Lambert nodded.

It was strange to head up a team after so long. Lambert stood in front of the six-strong team and called for silence. The team stared back at him, their faces a mixture of apathy and curiosity. He told them about his meeting with Sackville.

‘What do we have in the way of family members?’ he asked the room in general.

‘It’s a weird one, sir,’ said Kennedy. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone in the way of immediate family. Both sets of parents have long since passed away. Both Mr and Mrs Sackville are only children. They married twenty-five years ago but are childless.’

Lambert paused. ‘That might be relevant. Close friends, colleagues?’

‘I’ve arranged a meeting with the editor of Sackville’s paper for this morning,’ said Kennedy.

‘Good. Let’s find out what he was working on. Get to know his colleagues. What about our victim?’

A young DC, the newest member of the team, Steve Devlin got to his feet. ‘Mrs Sackville worked as a librarian,’ he said. ‘Dulwich Library. I’m planning to head over there after this, sir.’

‘Give that to Kennedy,’ said Lambert, noting the look of disappointment on Devlin’s face. ‘Sackville gave me the name “Prue McKenzie” when we talked. Kennedy, find out who she is. Get her thoughts on what happened. If Sackville’s recollection is correct then we seem to have a killer who’s not scared to take his time. Why did he make Eustace watch?’ asked Lambert, thinking aloud.

‘It’s not that uncommon,’ said Kennedy. ‘Could be a power thing. Gets off on having his handiwork observed.’

‘Let’s check on The System for any similar cases where someone was forced to witness another’s murder.’

‘Why the wrists?’ asked Devlin.

‘Good point. The cause of death was two vertical incisions, one to each wrist. The autopsy may give us more. It was a long, slow death. Sackville seemed to think that was the killer’s intention. Again, that might be significant.’

‘It’s reminiscent of suicide obviously,’ said Kennedy.

‘Yes,’ agreed Lambert. ‘But the most important thing for now is to find out as much detail about Mr and Mrs Sackville. It’s imperative we have some idea of motive.’

‘What are you thinking, sir?’ asked Kennedy.

‘From what Eustace Sackville told me, we are looking at someone professional. A killer who gained entry into the flat undetected, who had the patience and confidence to stay at the scene as Moira died. This was planned in advanced and Moira wasn’t a random target.’

Chapter 6

‘Kennedy, a word,’ Tillman summoned her in just as the briefing ended. ‘Shut the door.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Matilda.

‘Sit down.’

Matilda took a seat opposite her superior. He’d taken his jacket off and his pale blue shirt was tight against his body, as if constraining the flesh within. His head stood atop the widest shoulders she’d ever seen. He was like a prop-forward of a rugby team. Conspicuous muscle covered by a layer of fat.

‘Update.’

‘Shouldn’t you be speaking to Lambert about that, sir?’ She tilted her head, toying with him, wondering how far she could push.

Tillman stared straight ahead. ‘As we discussed before, I want you to keep an eye on him. This is the first major case he’s headed since he came back to us. You know his past.’

Matilda knew some of it. Lambert had been out of the force for the last two years. A few months ago he’d captured a serial killer who’d been active for over twenty years, by all accounts almost single-handed.

‘I’m not going to spy on him Glenn, if that’s what you want. Jesus, is that why…’

Tillman cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Kennedy.’ He looked genuinely aggrieved by her comment. They sat opposite each other in awkward silence, Matilda recalling the other evening where they’d both stayed on late at the local bar. Her ludicrous invitation for him to come back to her flat, and his even more ludicrous acceptance.

‘I just want you to be mindful,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘Let me know if he does anything out of the ordinary. He has a habit of doing things his own way. Just keep me updated.’

‘Is there anything else, sir?’ said Matilda, standing.

Tillman rubbed his chin, a bead of sweat dripping from his brow. She wanted to ask him about the other night but it wasn’t the right place or time.

‘Shall we save that for another time, Matilda?’

Matilda nodded and left his office, leaving the door ajar.

Lambert was still in the office, sitting alone, staring intently at his computer screen, but she knew he’d clocked her leaving Tillman’s office. She walked over, noticing with surprise how fresh he looked despite being up all night waiting for Sackville to come round.

‘Kennedy,’ he said.

‘Sir?’

‘Anything new to tell me?’

‘No.’

‘What’s your next move?’

‘I have an address for Prue McKenzie. I’m off to see her. I’m afraid it’ll be one of those visits. She doesn’t know about Moira’s death.’

Lambert returned his focus to his laptop. ‘Okay, find out as much as you can.’

‘Potential enemies, nemesis, that sort of thing. Somebody who’d just been fined for an overdue library book…’ said Matilda, raising an eyebrow.

‘Anything like that,’ said Lambert, not looking away from his screen.

She thought about Lambert as she drove to Dulwich. The rumours and whispers about him were legendary within the department, though he seemed to have an uneasy relationship with Tillman. They’d worked an old case together, Lambert rescuing Tillman from a hostage situation which resulted in one of the captors dying. Then there was the Souljacker case where for a time Lambert had been a suspect in a string of killings spanning twenty years.

More than any of that, there was Lambert’s daughter. Chloe Lambert had died age nine following a road accident when Lambert had been driving. The incident had taken place three years ago and resulted in Lambert being hospitalised, forced into an induced coma. He’d never been prosecuted for his role in the accident but the unkind whispers remained that somehow he was to blame.

Prue McKenzie lived in a semi-detached house close to Dulwich Park. Matilda pulled the car over two houses down. She knew nothing about the woman she was about to meet. As Moira Sackville had no immediate family, except for her husband, McKenzie would be the first person aside from the assigned professionals to learn of her death.

Matilda’s shoes crunched on the loose stones of McKenzie’s driveway. A light blue BMW with this year’s licence plate took centre stage, polished to perfection. Matilda stood by the front door, took in a deep breath and rang the doorbell. She hated these types of visits, the reaction she would receive was unpredictable but never pleasant.

A thin, wiry woman in her mid-sixties opened the door and smiled at Matilda.

‘Prue McKenzie?’

‘Yes,’ said the woman, surprising Matilda with the deepness of her voice.

‘Detective Sergeant Matilda Kennedy, please may I come in?’

The initial jovial welcome vanished in an instant, the woman’s calm appearance fading into a look of panic and dismay.

‘Is it Jeffrey? Dear God, tell me what’s happened. It’s not one of the children?’ The woman’s deep voice had been replaced by a high pitched squeal close to hysteria.

‘Let’s go inside Mrs McKenzie. It’s about your friend Moira Sackville.’ Matilda put her hand on the woman, whose body trembled.

‘Moira? What’s happened?’

‘Let’s go in.’ She followed the woman into the immaculate space of her house. All gleaming polished wood floors, and white walls adorned with original paintings. Mrs McKenzie led her through to a large living room. Two patterned sofas sat next to each other, creating an L shape.

‘Please take a seat, Mrs McKenzie.’

The woman slumped in a chair like an unruly teenager.

‘I’m afraid Mrs Sackville died last night in her apartment.’

McKenzie’s face drained of colour. ‘Died,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘How? You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.’

‘I’m afraid we’re treating her death as suspicious,’ said Matilda, sitting down next to the woman.

‘Eustace?’

‘Mr Sackville is fine, though he has received some injuries.’

The woman murmured, placing her hand to her mouth. ‘Injuries? Oh my God, she was murdered?’ Her shaking intensified.

Matilda placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders, trying to calm her.

‘Can I get you a drink of water?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Please, tell me what happened.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t go into too much detail,’ said Matilda, remembering the strict instructions she’d received from Tillman about not disclosing the nature of the murder.

‘In other words, she’s been murdered,’ said McKenzie.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Matilda. ‘Please let me get you a drink.’

The woman nodded towards a door. Matilda found a glass beaker in a kitchen twice the size of her flat. She let the tap run, trying to calm her own trembling hands. She returned to the woman. ‘Here you go, drink this. May I call you Prue?’

The woman, drinking in large gulping noises, nodded.

‘Thanks, Prue. I need to ask you some questions. I’ll try not to take too long. I understand you were very close to Mrs Sackville.’

The woman smiled. ‘We were like sisters,’ she said. ‘Didn’t have any other family, you see. It was just her and Eustace. They called each other orphans. Both sets of parents had died before they met each other at university. They found each other and have been together ever since. She couldn’t have children so it’s just been them, and me.’

‘You met Mrs Sackville at university?’

‘Yes, we were both studying English together. She’s a librarian.’ She went to correct the tense and Matilda placed her hand on her shoulder again.

‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’ asked Matilda.

‘It’s okay, I’ll call Jeffrey in a minute. What else do you need to know?’ Matilda was impressed by the woman’s change of tone, how she attempted to delay her own grief so she could help.

‘I just need to know some more details about Mrs Sackville… Moira. We don’t know much about her at the moment. Her husband is still in hospital.’

‘My God, is it serious?’

‘No, he will be okay.’

‘I need to visit him, is that possible?’

Matilda wrote down the address and ward number where Eustace was staying. ‘You may want to leave it until this evening as he’s still a bit drowsy.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What can you tell me about Moira? What sort of person was she?’

‘She was such a lovely woman. She’d do anything for you. I do a lot of charity work and Moira was always there to help, baking cakes, attending functions, always giving me as much support as possible. She was one of those people, you know, you could tell anything to.’

‘I imagine it sounds a crazy question, but did she have any enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?’

Prue laughed – a short, sharp snort, a mirthless sound. ‘She was a librarian, enemies didn’t normally come with the territory. Though even in small places like that there’s politics, hierarchies, that sort of thing. She used to tell me about the pedantic people who worked there. Not all of them, mind you, just one or two. Some of the council staff who paid visits, the mad bureaucracy. She hated all those aspects. All she cared about were the books. I think that’s why she got on so well with Eustace. They both loved words.’

‘So she never told you of any trouble? Where she felt under physical threat?’

‘God no. Just petty things. No one would want to harm her, why would they?’

‘What about Eustace? Did you get on well with him?’

‘He’s a nice enough guy. I haven’t really been able to socialise much with him despite him being married to my best friend. He was, he is, how should I put it … awkward in the sort of social situations we move in.’

The comment was meant to be harmless, throwaway, but Matilda saw a glimpse of the real Prue McKenzie in her words.

‘In what way, awkward?’ she asked.

‘My husband is a QC, you know, a barrister.’

Matilda nodded.

‘So a lot of our friends are, how shall we say, from the higher echelons of society. Moira could deal with that side of things, her family were well-to-do and she was left a lot of money. Eustace doesn’t come from that sort of world and he didn’t really try to blend in.’

‘In what way? Was he just quiet during functions, that sort of thing?’

‘Yes that and, it’s sounds ludicrous, but he never put any effort into his appearance. Moira was fed up with it but she was sort of resigned.’

‘Would you say they had a happy marriage?’

‘I suppose so, but dynamics change over the years. You’ll find that when you reach our age.’

Matilda didn’t need to reach any age to understand that. ‘Do you think Eustace could have had any enemies?’

‘It’s possible, given the sort of world he moved in – investigating criminals and whatnot. I didn’t really know much about his work and Moira didn’t like to share. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s only our first day of our investigation, we’re just looking at all avenues at the moment.’

The woman seemed to have regained full composure, as if the death of her closest friend was a mere shock to the system which she’d already overcome. Matilda could tell she had something further to say, but rather than ask, she waited. The painful silence was alleviated by the ticking of the antique grandfather clock and the distant sounds of builders working on the nearest loft conversion.

‘There was one thing,’ said McKenzie, with false reluctance, like a classic gossip. ‘I can’t believe I’m telling you this but it will come out at some point. Moira was seeing somebody. You didn’t get this information from me but it was one of the barristers at my husband’s chambers, Charles Robinson. He’s quite dashing and they met at one of my get-togethers.’

‘How long was this going on?’

‘Five years.’

Matilda sat back in the sofa, trying to control the wave of adrenaline that had come over her.

‘Charles wouldn’t hurt anybody, though’

Matilda sensed there was more. ‘Tell me about them.’

Prue made a strange face as if sucking on a sour sweet. Matilda knew the woman couldn’t help herself. ‘Moira told me some things about him, you know, sexual things.’

Matilda’s heart raced, desperate for the information, thinking she may have made a breakthrough so early in the case. ‘What sort of things?’ she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

‘Let’s just say he did things Eustace wouldn’t do. I don’t know what the term is… S and M? I asked her to stop telling me after a time, I couldn’t look Charles in the face.’

Matilda tried not to snigger at the sourness spreading across the woman’s face. ‘It would be helpful if you can give me some more details,’ she said, gently. ‘It could really help us.’

‘I used to drown her out when she’d tell me things but he used to tie her up. I don’t think it was anything too serious but she was always on about ropes and ties and what have you. Once she even mentioned he’d bought a pair of handcuffs.’

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.’

Chapter 8

They watched Robinson walking back towards chambers.

‘He looks worried,’ said Kennedy.

‘Perhaps. Go back and read through the case, and everything we have on it. Call me when you have some details and we can decide if it’s worth pursuing.’

‘You don’t think it will be?’

‘It would be convenient, but let’s see. I’m going to visit Eustace again. I want to know if he knew about Robinson, and what he’s been working on lately.’

‘I have an appointment with the head librarian from Moira’s library. I postponed the meeting after McKenzie’s revelations about Charles Robinson.’

‘Good. You should have time to check the case first, or get someone else on it so we at least have a summary.’

Lambert caught the tube back to the hospital. He rarely used cars if he could help it and in central London it was usually quicker getting about by public transport. He thought about Robinson’s changing personalities. The sadness he’d expressed on learning of Moira’s death, followed by the anger at the insinuation he’d read into Kennedy’s questions. He saw the case opening up before him, strand after strand branching out into infinite possibilities. He wanted a working theory but so far it was evading him. He hoped that Moira’s death was personal. That way it would be easier to find the killer. If it was random, which seemed unlikely, they would have to rely on the killer having made a mistake.

For now, they had to find out more about Moira Sackville. He realised they knew very little apart from her friendship with Prue McKenzie, and relationship with the Welsh barrister. Hopefully, Kennedy’s meeting with Moira’s colleagues would shed some more light on the woman.

After eating lunch in a small Italian off Lordship Lane, he called Sarah.

‘DCI May.’

‘Very formal,’ said Lambert.

‘I just like the way it sounds. How are you, stranger?’

‘I’m well. Thought I’d check in, see if you remember me, that sort of thing.’ The lunch had energised him and despite the stress of the case he felt momentarily optimistic, sitting in the sunshine, nursing an espresso, speaking to Sarah.

DCI Sarah May had been the SIO on the Souljacker case and they had ended up working together, albeit unofficially. They had become close after the case, and Lambert had spent some time at her flat in Bristol before returning to London. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed hearing her voice.

‘You can call me any time, Michael, you know that. You don’t need an excuse.’

‘So what are you working on?’ said Lambert, changing the subject.

‘Same. We keep finding bodies.’ She was referring to the legacy of the Souljacker. Following his death, a book was published electronically releasing the details of a number of murders. May had been tasked with following up and had so far discovered four unmarked graves. ‘What about you, still on the drugs case?’

‘No, I’ve been promoted. I’m heading up a murder investigation.’

‘Look at you, back to your old ways.’

Lambert outlined the case, keeping the detail confidential.

‘Some promising leads,’ said May. ‘You think it’s a one-off?’

‘I suppose it comes down to motive. If he was after her for some reason then it might end here. Don’t know yet.’

‘Well, let me know if you need any help,’ said May, a mischievous lilt to her voice.

They were skirting around the real issue. He’d returned to London to start work, and there had been no resolution about their relationship. They’d promised to keep in touch, to visit, but nothing more definite. He would have loved to see her, but they were both too busy.

There was also something else pressing on him, which he blurted out. ‘Sophie’s had the baby.’

Sarah didn’t respond and he thought for a second the line had been cut. ‘Ah,’ she said, eventually. ‘When?’

‘Three days ago. They’ve had to keep her in for some checks. There were some difficulties but she should be going home today. Sorry, Sarah, I should have told you before.’

‘Don’t be silly. How is she? How are you?’

‘She’s fine. The baby is called Jane.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, Jane Chloe.

‘How are you, Michael?’ said Sarah, insistent.

‘I’m okay. It’s a bit surreal. Look, I can’t talk about it at the moment.’

‘I’ll come down,’ said Sarah.

Lambert snorted, his pulse quickening. ‘You’re coming to rescue me?’

Sarah laughed down the line, the melodic sound sending waves of feeling through him. ‘Yes. You’re all alone, and Sophie has this new baby, and…’

He cut her off. ‘I have the case. I’ll be fine. When we have some more time we can get together. It would be good to see you.’

‘Smooth talker.’ She hesitated. ‘You know I should come. But fine. Call me when you need to.’

‘I know. Look, I’d better go. Duty calls.’

‘Look after yourself.’

‘You too.’

He braced himself for seeing Sophie and the baby as he entered the hospital. It was possible they were still both upstairs in the maternity ward but he couldn’t bring himself to find out, unsure if it was his place any more.

The rush of adrenaline from speaking to Sarah had faded, and he realised how tired he was. He bought another coffee from the hospital outlet, and headed towards the secure area where Sackville was being treated.

Nervous guy had left, and a WPC had joined the young DC Shah. Lambert didn’t bother with introductions. ‘Update?’

‘A few coming and goings,’ said Shah, handing him a report sheet. ‘Nurses, food, Dr Patel, and a psychiatrist, Dr Byatt. They want to discharge him, sir.’

Lambert entered the room. Sackville was sitting up in bed watching daytime television. ‘You’re feeling better I hear?’

Sackville lifted his head. He looked worse than yesterday, his pale skin mottled and blotchy, his eyes sunken and lifeless. Lambert didn’t envy the man. He had no family left, and his career was fading. The rest of his life would be haunted by memories of his wife’s murder. All the counselling in the world wouldn’t change that.

‘You remember our conversation yesterday?’

‘They called it an interrogation in the war,’ said Sackville, a crack of a smile appearing on his face.

‘May I?’ said Lambert, taking a seat. ‘Sorry about that, I needed as much information as possible.’

‘Have you told Prue?’

‘Yes. I’ve also spoken to your editor.’

‘I know.’ Sackville pointed to a bouquet in the corner of the room.

‘Your editor’s young.’

‘Mia? Young in age maybe, but she has an old soul. An old, deathless soul.’

‘Yes, she seemed happy go lucky,’ said Lambert, sharing the joke. ‘She mentioned you‘re working on something at the moment but wouldn’t go into much detail.’

‘Don’t get her started on journalistic sources, though I have to say I agree with her. Why did you want to know?’

‘We have to look at all angles, obviously. Mia mentioned you’ve been investigating the Blake family.’

Sackville’s face dropped. ‘What did you give her for that, an exclusive?’

‘She didn’t reveal anything. Told me to speak to you directly if I wanted any details.’

‘I’ve been investigating Curtis Blake on and off all my life.’

‘Mia mentioned something about people trafficking. Blake updating his empire?’

‘She hasn’t quite grasped it, and I’m afraid there isn’t much of a story.’

‘Who is he working with?’

‘Listen, I don’t like Curtis Blake, and I don’t respect him. In fact, I despise what he does and what he’s done.’

‘But?’

‘Some of these new guys. They have no boundaries. You must know that?’

Lambert had seen many things he wished he hadn’t over the years. As far as he was concerned, there had never been any boundaries for the majority of people he’d dealt with. The notion of the idealistic British criminal was the stuff of fiction. He was sure Eustace knew that as well as he did. ‘Justice is blind, Eustace. If they’re wrong, they’re wrong.’

‘There are degrees of wrongness, as you well know.’

‘You’re going to have to be more specific.’

Sackville adjusted the pillows on his bed. ‘I need to get out of here. You name it – the people smuggling, trafficking, the mindless violence. The more I see, the worse it is.’

‘It’s always been that way, Eustace. Tell me what you know. Who do you have details on, who would want to do this to Moira?’

‘You don’t bloody get it, do you?’

Lambert lifted his palms. ‘Enlighten me.’

‘I’ve stopped working. Blake is just an excuse. I had a few meetings, took some notes and that’s it. Just enough work to convince Mia to keep paying me until I retire. I’m done, no stomach left.’

Lambert stood. ‘Want some water?’

Sackville shook his head, a look of disdain on his face.

‘So you have no idea who would do this?’

‘Listen, Lambert.’

Lambert paced the room, reluctant to say what had to be said. ‘What about Moira?’

Sackville tensed, colour spreading to his cheeks.

‘I need to ask. Did she have any enemies, Eustace?’

‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’

‘I need something, Eustace. If there isn’t a reason for this attack, if it was completely random, then we will never find out who did this to Moira. I need a motive.’

‘She was a bloody librarian.’

The man wasn’t listening. ‘Look, I’m sorry to ask this Eustace but do you know Charles Robinson?’

Sackville tensed again, and for one absurd moment Lambert thought he was about to spring at him. ‘That’s long finished,’ said Sackville, through gritted teeth.

‘So you know about him and Moira.’

‘Yes, I fucking know. She couldn’t hide her guilty conscience.’

‘When did it end?’

‘A couple of years ago.’

Lambert hid his surprise, remembering that Robinson had said it had ended a year ago. ‘Did you ever confront him?’

‘No, but then we were never in the same room together after I found out.’ Sackville took a swig of water. ‘Could do with something stronger,’ he said, wiping a drip from his face.

‘Does he know that you know?’

‘I imagine he fucking does, yes.’ Eustace scrunched his face, the memory of his wife’s infidelity somehow animating him more than her death. Something changed in his face, and he began pulling the covers from his bed. ‘Is that bastard a suspect?’ he said, trying to get to his feet, flailing on his back.

Lambert placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, get back to bed. Robinson has an alibi for the evening of the attack.’

Sackville pulled the covers back over, making an angry swipe of his hand across his tear filled eyes.

‘Let’s leave it for now, Eustace. Get some rest. Is there anyone I can contact for you?’

Sackville shook his head. ‘There’s no one,’ he said.

Chapter 9

Devlin stopped her as she returned to the office. ‘You seen Lambert today?’

‘Just left him, why?’

‘I wanted to go through the CCTV footage with him.’

‘Well, you can go through it with me first,’ said Matilda. She liked the new DC, but on occasions he was a little too keen to show off his worth.

‘Not much to show unfortunately. No cameras face the front of the building. There is a camera in the apartment’s foyer. I edited all the frames which I thought of interest, and went through them with the concierge. Everyone is accounted for during the twenty-four hour period.’

Matilda frowned. They hadn’t expected anything but it was still a disappointment. ‘I don’t think you need to bother DCI Lambert with no news, do you?’

Devlin looked momentarily crestfallen. ‘No, Sarge.’

She took pity on him. ‘I need a name checked. Noel Whitfield.’ She handed him the piece of paper with the case name on it. ‘I need all details on this case. Thirty minutes?’

Devlin nodded as he rushed back to his desk.

She updated the file as she waited for Devlin. She thought about the adulterous barrister, and his panicked response to their investigation. She would have liked it to have been a sign of a guilty conscience, a way of distracting them from their investigation, but feared it was just a sign of the kind of man he was. They’d just informed him that his long-term lover had been brutally murdered, and his main concern was protecting himself.

‘Interesting case,’ said Devlin, returning with a case file twenty minutes later. ‘Serious cock-up by CPS in my opinion.’

‘Give me the highlights,’ said Matilda.

‘Whitfield, aged thirty, was charged with attempted murder. He’d broken in, and had been waiting in the residence of the alleged victim, Andrew Haynes. Haynes’ girlfriend, Rebecca Pritty, was present at the time. Whitfield was alleged to have tied both victims to two separate radiators in Haynes’ bedroom. He made the girlfriend watch as he tortured Haynes, and left him to die after repeatedly stabbing him in the torso.’

‘He survived?’

‘If you can call it surviving. Permanently disabled.’

‘And the girlfriend watched all this.’

‘She was Whitfield’s ex. He made her watch, no disguise, quite clear motive. He left her at the scene. Fortunately, a neighbour heard their screams early on and they got Haynes to hospital in time.’

‘What happened in court?’ asked Matilda, thinking she already knew the answer.

‘Whitfield was represented by a Mr…’ Devlin looked at his notes.

‘Charles Robinson?’

Devlin tilted his head. ‘Yes. Robinson found a number of discrepancies in the evidence gathering. The judge reluctantly declared there was no case to answer. Gave CPS a complete dressing down.’

‘What about Whitfield since?’

‘He was sectioned for a time but was released. He’s been clean since. Last known address is over in Finchley.’

‘And Haynes?’

‘He went into psychiatric care for a time. Girlfriend left him. Last we know of him he’s living with his brother in an estate in Tottenham.’

‘Good summary, Devlin.’

Devlin couldn’t hide his pleasure, a broad smile filling his face. ‘Is it worth pursuing?’

‘We’ll have to tick the boxes now just in case. Sounds like an isolated incident to me. Try to locate Whitfield but don’t approach him without speaking to me. I’ll run it past Lambert.’

She read through the files Devlin had printed, looking for any discrepancies he may have missed, but came up blank. It took a great leap to link the Whitfield case with Sackville. Unless there was a clear link between him and either of the Sackvilles then it was difficult to see the cases being related unless it was pure coincidence.

She logged into The System, and ran differing routines matching the Sackvilles, Whitfield and Haynes, but no link was evident. She decided to wait until Devlin located Whitfield. It was too tenuous a link to bother pursuing at present.

She took lunch in the canteen, finding a small spot which overlooked the river. She glanced at the newspaper in front of her as she took mouthfuls of jacket potato but couldn’t concentrate on the text. She kept replaying the case in her head. She’d thought so much about it in the last few hours, that it was as if she’d witnessed the incident. She had her own video of what happened in her head, and it followed what Eustace Sackville had told Lambert. A lone intruder, forcing the woman to cuff her husband then being cuffed herself. She pictured the man cutting Moira Sackville, could hear the sound of the knife tearing at her flesh.

Matilda understood this way of thinking was dangerous. For all they knew at present, Eustace’s description of events could have been a fabrication. They had yet to rule him out as a suspect. It was feasible that he was the one responsible for Moira’s death. That he had tied her up and had somehow managed to inflict the cuff marks on his own wrists as a defence. It was possible the scene Matilda was replaying in her mind was a lie.

She thought about the lawyer, Charles Robinson and his affair with Moira Sackville. Again, images played in her head like memories. Secret rendezvous, the bedroom games which had so appalled Prue McKenzie. She tried to picture Robinson as the intruder but couldn’t visualise it. He’d left a poor first impression on her but he was too much of a coward to have killed Moira. The way he’d tried to distance himself from her murder, offering a former client to distract them from him. Even the way he talked, the practised confidence, the silky charisma. He was like a chimera, – but again, they couldn’t rule him out. She had to shake the images of the murder from her head, and follow the facts.

‘Don’t mind, do you?’ DC Donald Walker took a seat opposite her. ‘How goes it Sergeant?’

Walker had been a member of her team for over two years. Last year they had both competed for a vacant sergeant position. Matilda was sure Walker had never forgiven her for winning.

‘What do you want, Walker?’

‘Just checking how your work with Lambert is going. Is he treating you right?’

Matilda sighed, deciding to get straight to the point. ‘Is this to do with the sergeant test again?’

Walker fidgeted in his chair, picked at his infuriatingly manicured beard. ‘We all know how you got that position, Kennedy.’

Matilda smiled. She’d attained the position through sheer hard work and results. Walker’s tendency to open his mouth before thinking was one of the reasons he’d yet to be promoted. She adopted her most patronising tone, knowing it would get to Walker. ‘Look, Don, I can’t help it that I was deemed to be the most suitable for the position. Maybe next time, yeah?’ She rolled her eyes upwards, enjoying Walker’s discomfort.

Walker nodded his head a few times. ‘You should have taken me up on my offer that time, you wouldn’t be speaking to me like that if you had.’

Matilda stared hard at the man. He was referring to the last Christmas party where he’d had too many mulled wines and had made a fumbled pass at her. ‘You were lucky I didn’t report you then. I’d watch what I said, if I were you.’

‘Oh, fuck off, Kennedy,’ he whispered through gritted teeth.

Matilda took a bite of her congealed jacket potato, and looked down at her paper.

Walker waited a beat and eventually took the hint.

She watched him leave in her peripheral vision, not lifting her head until she was sure he’d left the canteen. She tensed her arm, noting her hand was trembling. She should report him. She’d heard whispers from a couple of other female officers that the Christmas party was not an isolated incident, but she had to be careful. However progressive the Met presented itself, it was still male dominated. Complaints of sexual harassment were treated seriously, but there was always the risk of being ostracised. The worst he’d done to her was make a silly pass, which hadn’t bothered her that much. It was not enough to take it further, but she couldn’t help thinking that his behaviour might escalate, if not with her then with someone else.

Lambert called, distracting her. They agreed to meet at Lordship Lane in two hours. She returned to the office, and was about to start researching Charles Robinson when a booming voice called to her from the other end of the room.

‘Sergeant Kennedy. My office. Now,’ said Tillman.

Chapter 10

Lambert stopped at a newsagent on Lordship Lane and purchased a bottle of water. The weather was relentless. The brief rainstorm earlier had done little to dampen the heat. His cotton shirt stuck to his body like a second skin. He downed the water in one and headed to the library. He kept getting the sense that the case was splintering in numerous directions, none of which were helping him. In cases like this, immediate family were normally where a case began and ended. Moira’s only family was Eustace and at the moment, Lambert couldn’t see him being involved. It was too complicated a set-up. If he’d wanted to eliminate his wife, for whatever reason, then it could have been done more easily. As a crime journalist, Eustace would have arranged things differently.

Not that they could eliminate him completely. Eustace knew about his wife’s adultery so there was a potential motive. It was possible that he could have paid someone to commit the crime, and paid extra to be able to watch. Lambert had encountered similar scenarios before. Eustace was full of grief but Lambert had seen plenty of guilty men grieve for their actions.

Kennedy had changed clothing since this morning. Gone was the plain trouser suit, in its place a green summer dress. Her red hair was still tied neatly in a bun, and when she greeted him he noticed she wore more make up than usual.

‘Something I should know?’

She screwed up her face, confused.

‘I didn’t realise we were dressing up,’ said Lambert.

‘Oh.’ A flash of colour spread over her cheeks and faded.

Lambert held up his hands. ‘I’m making no comment, Sergeant,’ he said, smiling.

‘Off to see a friend afterwards. Unless we have more work,’ she added, as a reluctant afterthought.

‘I’m sure we can spare you for one evening,’ he said, moving past her into the entrance of the library trying to ignore the faint scent of her perfume.

He was surprised to find the library full of people. The atmosphere inside was stifled. People sat at desks battling away at their laptops or reading newspapers and periodicals. Lambert made his way over to the enquiries desk, trying to ignore the stench of body odour emanating from an elderly man who was reading an oversized print hardback. ‘I’m here to see Sandra Levinson,’ he said to the spectacle-wearing man behind the desk.

The man squeezed the bridge of his nose, as if Lambert’s presence was an unwelcome distraction. ‘I believe she’s in her office. Up the stairs, through the door marked “do not enter”. Is she expecting you?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Kennedy had called earlier, informing the head librarian about Moira Sackville. It seemed the woman had yet to tell her staff about their colleague’s tragic, and violent, death. Either that or Moira’s death had failed to touch the man behind the desk in anyway.

‘You lead,’ he told Kennedy as they knocked on the door.

A striking woman with large opal eyes opened the door. ‘Hello?’ she said, her smile warm and compassionate, only the few fine lines under her eyes betraying her age.

‘Mrs Levinson? Sergeant Matilda Kennedy, we spoke on the phone earlier. This is DCI Michael Lambert.’

The smile vanished, as Levinson realised why they were there. ‘Do come through,’ she said.

The woman led them to a small office, little bigger than a broom cupboard, and asked them to sit. ‘I’m afraid I’m still coming to terms with what you told me this morning, Sergeant Kennedy. I’ve lived in London all my life and it’s the first time I’ve ever known someone…’ Her words drifted off, as if she’d finished the sentence in her mind.

‘Our sincere condolences, Mrs Levinson. Something like this is always a huge shock. There are people we can put you and your colleagues in touch with to help you through this time.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Did you know Moira well?’ asked Lambert.

‘Yes,’ said Levinson, looking intently at him. ‘I’ve been working here for five years. Moira was here when I started. In fact, I was surprised at the time that she’d not been offered my position. She had a wealth of experience, and a passion for the place which has been unequalled since. She later confided that she hadn’t applied for the role, that she didn’t want the added burden of such responsibility. She will be sorely missed.’

‘Could you tell me a bit more about the person she was?’ asked Kennedy.

Levinson turned to face Kennedy. Her look was intense. She focused on Matilda as if she was the only person in the room. If Kennedy was intimidated by the look, she didn’t show it.

‘As I mentioned, she was very passionate about the library. She was an avid reader, most of us are, as you can probably imagine. She loved helping people. There was a small band of elderly women who used to come see her every week for advice on what to read next.’

‘How did she get on with other members of staff?’ asked Lambert.

Levinson turned her focus, her eyes boring into him. ‘Very well. We’re quite a close knit team.’

‘No animosity? Trouble with any of the library’s patrons?’ asked Kennedy.

‘Moira? You couldn’t wish to meet a lovelier person. In all my time here, I never heard a bad word said about her, or by her.’ Levinson had raised her tone, and sounded defensive.

‘Did you ever meet with her away from work?’ asked Lambert.

‘Not really. We have the occasional social get-together, at Christmas, that sort of thing.’

‘Did you ever meet her friends, or family?’

‘I met her husband once. Very jolly chap. He’s a journalist. I helped him with some research on local history.’

‘Did she ever confide in you?’ asked Kennedy.

‘About what?’

‘Anything.’

‘We didn’t really have that sort of relationship, I’m afraid. We were colleagues first, friends second. I wish I could help you, I really do. I can’t believe anyone would do this purposely to Moira. I mean, no one would single her out. I can only imagine it was random.’

Lambert stood, uninterested as to the woman’s opinions on motive. ‘Thank you, Mrs Levinson, you’ve been a great help. We’ll be in contact tomorrow. Some officers will be over to speak to the members of your team. In the meantime, please let me know if you think of anything which may be of help,’ he said, handing over his card.

‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ said Kennedy, outside.

‘Nothing is a waste of time. We know now she didn’t socialise much with her colleagues. She loved books. Eustace was researching the local area. Any of those points may become relevant.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Kennedy, who was almost hopping on the spot with eagerness to get away.

Lambert paused. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’

Kennedy opened her mouth then shut it.

‘See you seven a.m. tomorrow morning.’

Kennedy frowned. ‘Sir,’ she said, sticking her hand out for a passing taxi.

Lambert caught a taxi home, too tired for public transport. Home was currently a bedsit in Lewisham. Sophie was keeping the house for the time being until they had formalised details of the separation. A wave of dampness and festering mould overcame him as he opened the communal front door. He could almost see the trapped hot air escape through the front door. He hauled his tired body up the stairs to his room, telling himself that it was only temporary.

His room was oppressive. Although he’d left his window on the latch, his room was still stifling. He opened the window fully and allowed the minuscule breeze to cool him. A thousand thoughts played in his mind. He needed time to collate, analyse, and organise them as was his way, but first he needed to rest. His sleep pattern had never been normal, but now it was destroyed. He’d last slept late yesterday evening on the cold bench at the hospital. The lights had appeared then but despite his tiredness he didn’t think he would hallucinate tonight.

He made a red bush tea, sat on the room’s sole chair and listened to Andy Shauf singing about falling asleep. He tried to attack each raging thought one at a time, but the images of the last twenty-four hours swam in his head in a grotesque collage: Moira Sackville’s crime scene, Eustace Sackville alone and distraught in a hospital bed, Sophie and the new baby, Matilda Kennedy setting off for an evening out. He imagined Sarah May was in London, wished that he could just call her and she would appear.

He undressed, and climbed into bed, his thoughts returning to Eustace Sackville. He thought about what the man had been through, the death of his only family, and tried to think about how he must be feeling alone in his hospital bed. Then his thoughts moved on to Sophie and the new baby; how Chloe’s sister would never be part of his life, and he realised his and Eustace Sackville’s situation were not that different.

Chapter 11

She realised it was a mistake. She realised every time she did it. She’d half hoped last night that Lambert would have asked her to work later so she could have avoided it.

She walked naked into the bathroom and switched on the shower. She searched through the cabinets but found only the most rudimentary of toiletries. It was unprofessional in more ways than one. She’d known from the moment she’d changed into the green dress, which had even received a note of assent from Lambert, that she would end up staying the night here. Yet she hadn’t even brought a change of clothes. Now she would have to go home and change. She turned off the shower, returned to the bedroom and put on her clothes.

Tillman sat up in bed and looked at her. ‘Leaving already?’

‘Lambert’s scheduled a meeting for seven and I can hardly turn up in last night’s clothes.’ Her tone was short, and summed up their relationship. The nights of passion, followed by the mornings of regret. Tillman was barely covered by a thin sheet. She surveyed him as she dressed, intrigued by the vastness of his pale body. His large figure at once overweight but muscled, far from her normal choice in men. She was sleeping with the boss, something she’d always secretly belittled other women for doing, but there was something about the man which drew her in.

Tillman rubbed his eyes. For a moment, she thought he was going to say something ridiculous, like she should leave some clothes at this place. ‘I’ll see you there,’ he said, rolling over on his side. She fought a wave of desire and left.

She drove home, the evidence of last night’s excesses seeping through her pores. She needed food and coffee. At home, she ran the coffee maker and showered again – dousing herself in shower gel and shampoo, scrubbing her teeth clean with an evangelical zeal. She toasted a bagel, and burnt her throat washing it down with the scalding coffee.

Devlin greeted her as she walked into the incident room five minutes early. ‘Sarge, a Mrs Levinson called last night. She wants to speak to you. Something she forgot to mention yesterday, she said.’

Kennedy nodded, taking the note from him. She sat at her desk, glancing at Lambert who had seemingly not noticed her arrival.

‘Right, let’s get on with this,’ said Lambert, getting to his feet. He was dressed in a suit she hadn’t seen before. He looked surprisingly fresh, clean shaven, and bright eyed, as if he’d had a good night’s rest. He handed out duties with almost military-like precision. He ordered a re-examination of the CCTV footage, checked that the Whitfield lead was being followed up, and instructed two of the team to start trawling through Eustace Sackville’s past newspaper stories. ‘Anything, however minor, that stands out – then notify me immediately,’ he said.

The meeting lasted less than twenty minutes.

‘Good night?’ he said to Matilda, after everyone had left the conference room. His eyebrows arched high, giving him a comical look.

‘It was fine, thank you,’ she replied, deadpan. She told him she planned to see Levinson again that morning.

‘Okay. I want you to visit Sackville after you’ve seen her. See if you can get anything from him. Maybe he’ll open up to you. Try to find out some more about his article research and his relationship to the Blake family. I’m planning to see Blake today. And push him some more on Robinson.’

Matilda hesitated. ‘You’re going to see Blake alone?’

Lambert faltered. She thought she saw something in him she hadn’t seen before. It was as if he’d let his guard slip for a second. ‘I think I’ll be safe. Keep me updated on what the librarian says.’

Sandra Levinson was prowling the non-fiction floor of the library when Matilda arrived. Matilda watched her from a distance, taken once more by the woman’s beauty: the perfect symmetry of her face, and the elegant grace of her body. It was no exaggeration to suggest that the woman could have made a career in modelling.

As if she’d known Matilda had been watching her all this time, the librarian turned to face her in a slow drawn out movement. Her face broke into a smile on seeing Matilda, the faintest of lines appearing to the side of her eyes. ‘Sergeant Kennedy, hello.’ She carried an edition of A Room of One’s Own, which she placed back on one of the bookshelves. ‘Could I buy you a coffee? I’m dying for a hit of caffeine. There’s a lovely little café down the road.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Matilda.

Matilda noticed the appreciative looks Levinson received as they walked down Lordship Lane, as if she was accompanying someone famous. The woman either didn’t notice the stares, or was so used to them she didn’t bother commenting. ‘Let’s sit outside, what can I get you?’

‘Let me,’ said Matilda.

‘Don’t be silly, I insist.’

Matilda ordered a black coffee, and enjoyed the sunshine as she waited for Levinson to return. She presumed the journey would be a wasted one as she couldn’t imagine Levinson had the most devastating of news to tell her, but at least she could enjoy this one moment of pleasure.

‘There you go. I bought us some pastries, hope you don’t be mind.’

Matilda’s mouth watered as she surveyed the crumbling flakes of the pains au chocolat. ‘Thank you. I won’t tell if you won’t. How are things at the library, how has everyone taken the news?’

‘It’s a little surreal. Naturally, everyone was shocked but I think it’s hard for them to accept the true extent of what has happened. Me included, I’m afraid. I keep looking at the entrance, somehow waiting for Moira to walk through.’

‘I understand completely. These things take time.’ Matilda took a bite of the pastry, a wave of guilt overcoming her as she savoured the melted chocolate within.

‘I really hope I haven’t wasted your time. It was when I told the team last night about Moira that I remembered something that happened a few months back. It was nothing really, but I thought it might help.’

‘Anything you can tell us could help. However trivial it might seem.’

Levinson fell silent, her face taut in concentration. ‘There was a man. I would have thought nothing of it, if it hadn’t been for what he was wearing.’

Matilda placed a hand on the woman’s arm, surprised by the feel of wiry muscle. ‘Slow down. Where was this man?’

‘He was hanging outside the library, nearly every morning when I came to work. Not directly outside but over the road.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of months ago. March, April maybe. He was there every morning for a week. I should have notified the police but he wasn’t really doing anything except loitering. I would see him as I went into the library, and then I would check on him from my office window. He would sometimes just leave, but on one day he was there for a couple of hours.’

‘And what did you notice about what he was wearing?’

‘That was the thing,’ said Levinson, a sparkle igniting her eyes. ‘I’m a bit of a shoe snob and I’d noticed he was wearing a pair of shoes from Barker and Co. My husband likes their shoes. And he was wearing beautifully tailored trousers. Nothing unusual about that but he was wearing a hoodie over his shirt. This beaten old black thing and he had the hood up. It just didn’t look right to me.’

‘Did you tell any of the staff?’

‘No, I didn’t want to worry them unduly. You get a lot of strange folk coming in and out of here. They probably wouldn’t have batted an eyelid anyway.’

‘Could you give me more of a description? Did you get a good look at his face?’

‘Only the once. He might have thought no one was looking but I peeked at him through the blinds in my office. He took his hood down for a moment and I saw him then. He was a lot older than I’d imagined, though he was quite good looking. He had a good head of hair, silvery grey. I’m afraid I must have touched the blinds as he glanced up at the window and put the hoodie back on. He hasn’t appeared since.’

Matilda pulled her phone from her trouser pocket. ‘Just bear with me a second, Sandra,’ she said, searching on Google. She found the image she was looking for and handed the phone to Levinson.

‘Yes, that’s him. How did you know?’

Matilda sighed. ‘It’s a long story but thank you very much, that information could come in handy. She saved the image and texted it to Lambert. Underneath, she typed. ‘We need to interview Charles Robinson again.’

Chapter 12

It had taken him fifteen minutes to get through the first gate. Now Lambert stood waiting outside the second. His jacket was damp beneath his suit jacket, the early morning sun already blistering hot.

‘Who did you say you were again?’ said the voice on the intercom.

He knew he was being mocked but played along anyway. There was sure to be more than one exit to the house and if he wasn’t polite, he knew Curtis Blake would suddenly be unavailable. ‘DCI Michael Lambert. I have an appointment with Mr Blake.’

‘Please wait,’ said the intercom voice.

Lambert waited another ten minutes before the front door opened. A slim muscular man dressed in a black suit walked down the stone pathway towards him, flanked on either side by two men almost twice his size wearing cheaper versions of the same suit. The man stopped, took off a pair of expensive looking sunglasses and assessed him with a stern glare. ‘Will Atkinson, Mr Blake’s head of security. May I see some ID, Mr Lambert,’ he said, his voice strong and authoritative.

Lambert handed him his warrant card.

Atkinson looked harder than necessary. He was clearly ex-military. He nodded to one of his colleagues, and the steel gate opened.

‘Quite the security set-up you have,’ said Lambert.

Atkinson nodded. ‘It’s important to be safe,’ he said.

Lambert held his arms out as one of the henchmen checked him for weapons.

‘Thank you, please follow me,’ said Atkinson.

The house, a detached property in Hampstead, would be worth millions. Blake owned a number of legitimate businesses, mainly property related, in the capital. It was feasible that he would make some enemies in such a line of work, but the level of security in the house was disproportionately high. The front door was made of steel. Atkinson had to punch in a six-digit pin to gain entry. Both the guards turned away as he entered the code, and Lambert was instructed to do the same. The door led to another gated area. Atkinson unlocked three locks to enter the main area of the house, leaving one of the guards to monitor the front door.

‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Lambert, following Atkinson into a vast dining room where a man sat drinking coffee, talking on a mobile phone. The man looked up and pointed to a chair.

‘Take a seat,’ said Atkinson.

Lambert sat and waited for Curtis Blake to finish his call. The man was in his late fifties but looked older, his leathered face crisscrossed with deep grooves. He was wearing a white linen suit, a crisp shirt with the top button pushed into the loose flesh of his neck. He said something into the phone, before placing it on the dining table. ‘DCI Lambert,’ he said, more to himself than directly at Lambert. Leaning back in his chair, he continued. ‘Yes, DCI Lambert. I know all about you. How is Glenn Tillman?’

Lambert had run through Blake’s file on The System last night and knew that Tillman had investigated him a number of times over the years with no success.

‘You’ll have to ask him yourself. I am here on another issue.’

Blake lifted his coffee cup. ‘Where are my manners? Can I get you something? Water, perhaps? You look like you ran here.’

‘I’m fine.’

Lambert told him about Moira Sackville.

Blake drank his coffee, lost in contemplation. ‘Poor Eustace. I never had the pleasure of meeting his wife.’

‘You knew Eustace well.’

‘Of course, of course. Eustace Sackville, reporter extraordinaire. That’s why you wanted to speak to me?’

‘I understand you and Eustace have a history?’

A smirk crossed Blake’s lips but lent no humour to his face. ‘I would hardly call it that.’

‘You know he was investigating you?’

‘You must have spoken to him already. Some preposterous idea he had. He still thinks I’m twenty, thinks I’m some sort of petty criminal. He even had the temerity to call me.’

‘I don’t think he believes you’re a petty criminal,’ said Lambert, looking around at the ostentatious decorations of the dining room.

Blake looked at his mobile. ‘My point exactly. This has been hard won. I work fifteen, sixteen hours a day. I’m never off this bloody thing.’

‘I understand that Eustace was looking at some competing groups?’

The smirk had disappeared from Blake’s face. ‘Some perceived competition. I told Sackville then, and I’m telling you now, that I have nothing to fear from Russians, Albanians, Kosovans, or whoever is the new flavour of the month. I have nothing to do with them, and they have nothing to do with me.’

‘Why all the security?’

Blake shook his head as if he was talking to an imbecile. ‘You don’t become successful in this world without making enemies, Lambert, you must know that. This is all for precaution.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘I know why you want to speak to me, Lambert. Let me see, you think Moira Sackville was killed, what, as a warning?’

Lambert sat stony-faced.

‘No, not a warning. Why bother going to such lengths, may as well have bumped him off as well? You think Eustace was being punished for something. Something he knew, or something he did. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I think you are barking up the wrong tree, as it were. At least, if it’s concerning me. Why would I care about what that journalist was up to? Maybe he pissed off the wrong people somewhere. But really, it’s all a bit, well, messy.’

‘And it has nothing to do with you, I presume?’

Blake pursed his lips, his face cracking into a patchwork of lines like an uncharted map. ‘Of course not. Now if you don’t mind, Atkinson here will show you out. Please pass on my regards to your superior.’

Lambert felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to face Atkinson, who had crept up on him.

He allowed the head of security to escort him out. He couldn’t argue with Blake’s logic and he’d summed it up very well. The case was messy. Finding a motive was proving elusive and it was a possibility that the attack was a one-off, that there was no rhyme or reason, and that unless the killer struck again they would never find out who he was.

Lambert headed for the train station, thinking that the time may have come to start using a pool car. He’d avoided travelling by car as much as possible since the car accident which had taken his daughter but it was becoming unavoidable. Travelling by public transport may give him time to think but it also ate away at his time. As long as he didn’t drive late at night, he was sure he would be okay.

He checked his phone. Kennedy had called and left a text message. It was something about Moira Sackville’s ex-lover, the barrister Charles Robinson. Lambert was about to call her back when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

It was a firm tap, more a grab, and Lambert immediately went on the defensive. He turned in one swift moment, at the same time stepping back a few steps to avoid any contact from a would-be attacker.

‘Steady there,’ said the man who’d tapped his shoulder, lifting his hands in defence.

‘Can I help you?’ said Lambert, still poised for attack.

The man reached into the inside pocket of his threadbare jacket and showed Lambert a warrant card. ‘DS Harrogate. We need to talk.’

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