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‘Good to see you too,’ said Lambert. The last time he’d seen Tillman had been shortly after Chloe’s funeral. Both men had agreed that Lambert should take some extended time away from work. Lambert hadn’t heard from him since.
Lambert dropped the envelope onto the glass table. Tillman moved towards him and picked it up, his expression passive as he scanned the photos.
‘And?’ he said.
‘I hoped I would have been informed if anything came in on this,’ said Lambert.
Tillman sat, his breathing heavy. A blue striped tie bulged rhythmically against his thick neck. ‘You don’t work for us at the moment, Michael.’
‘This relates directly to me, sir. It would have been a courtesy.’
Tillman studied the photos again. ‘This goes back to your University days, doesn’t it? I remember it from your file. What did the press call him, the Souljacker or something?’ He put the file down. ‘Look, this is the first I’ve heard of it. It must be with the local CID. It’s not something that would come our way, you know that.’
‘I want access,’ said Lambert.
Tillman smirked. ‘There’s no access, Michael. If you’re not working for us then no way.’
‘Employ me then. Private contract.’
‘We don’t do that any more. We’re part of the NCA now. Sort of,’ he said, as an afterthought. The National Crime Agency had replaced SOCA, the Serious Organised Crime Agency, the previous year.
‘Right,’ said Lambert. Lambert had been working for SOCA when Tillman had recruited him. They’d previously worked together when Lambert had first joined CID. Tillman had been his first DI.
Tillman now headed a department known simply as The Group. It was a cross alliance with military intelligence. There had been five others in Lambert’s team. Aside from Tillman, The Group comprised one DI and one DS from the MET, and two operatives from MI5. For the first time in his career, Lambert had signed the Official Secrets Act for work and received a security clearance level. Lambert had long suspected that there were a number of similar groups working independent from Tillman’s collective.
‘Look, sir. I don’t want to push this but I need access.’ He was taking a calculated risk speaking to his superior this way. It was not beyond Tillman to tell him where to go, to leave him in the room for twenty-four hours to dwell on his insolence.
Tillman lifted his hand to his face. ‘You’re calling it in?’
Tillman didn’t really owe him anything, but his superior didn’t see it that way. Lambert had protected him once and still held potentially incriminating evidence on the man. He would never betray Tillman, but Tillman was honour bound to repay the favour. ‘I don’t want it to be like that, but if it has to be that way.’
Tillman rubbed his left temple, a familiar gesture Lambert had seen countless times before. ‘I will say you stole the access codes if it ever comes to light.’
‘I realise that.’
‘Then we’re done, Michael. Unless you come back to us, it will be the last time you have access to The System.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Lambert, getting to his feet.
‘I will email you the access codes within the next two hours. Any work you do on this Souljacker business is yours alone. Make no records. Understand?’
‘Sir.’
Tillman left the room without acknowledging him.
Lambert thanked the receptionist as he left the building. He doubted the man had any idea who he was, or who Tillman was for that matter. Lambert savoured the fresh air once outside, buoyed by the meeting. He’d thought he’d have to argue his case for access to The System but Tillman had given in almost immediately. He’d even given a suggestion of Lambert returning to work for him in the future.
The access codes arrived two hours later. Lambert was back at his desk in his home office, a three-storey Edwardian house in Beckenham, Kent, which bordered south-east London. Before him, information scrolled across six computer monitors. It had been a long time since he’d last activated them.
The System had been the reason Lambert had signed the OSA. As far as he was aware, only a handful of people outside The Group knew of its existence. The System was an amalgamation of existing computer systems and databases, as well as something else entirely. The System had direct access to a number of worldwide criminal databases including HOLMES and the PNC in the UK, and limited access to databases used by Interpol and European forces. In addition, The System could access the back end of nearly all social media sites.
Lambert experienced a rush of adrenalin as he logged into The System with codes sent to him by Tillman. He spent a few minutes acclimatising to the new layout, and exhaled sharply as he accessed details of the new Souljacker murder. The case appeared on HOLMES, the system used by the police to record details on major crimes.
A neighbour had discovered the body of Terrence Vernon five days ago, in a two-bedroom top floor flat in an area called Southville, a mile from the city centre of Bristol. The smell of the corpse had alerted the neighbour who had duly informed the police. The Senior Investigating Officer was Detective Superintendent Rush, though it was apparent that the chief investigator was Detective Inspector Sarah May.
The pathologist’s initial report suggested that the deceased had endured every part of the attack, including the removal of his eyes, the man’s eventual death resulting from a cut to his carotid artery. It had been no real leap to link the killing to the notorious Souljacker murders, the last of which had taken place eighteen years ago.
Lambert opened the window in the office. He could still picture Billy Nolan. In their last year at University together, his small group of friends had all managed to secure a place at the halls of residence. Nolan had lived six doors down from Lambert on the fifth floor.
It was Lambert who had broken down Nolan’s door that night. Nolan sprawled on his bed, giant bloody holes where his eyes should have been. Lambert had recognised it was Latin carved into his friend’s body but couldn’t translate it. He’d stared, dumbfounded, at the lifeless form, hoping it was some twisted joke being played on him. Then the smell had overwhelmed him and he’d struggled into the corridor and vomited.
Lambert shuddered. Similar scenes played on the computer screens now. Photos of Terrence Vernon’s corpse scrolled across each screen, lying askew on his bedroom floor, the two gaping holes in his skull looking too wide to have ever held human eyes. Next, the close-up pictures of the Latin, In oculis animus habitat. Like on all the previous victims, each letter was carved into Vernon’s chest in faultless detail, suggesting the killer had spent hours on the inscription.
Lambert recalled the fallout from Billy’s Nolan’s death, the number of lives forever affected by the senseless murder. He remembered the desolate look on the faces of Nolan’s parents as they arrived at the University. The students who had witnessed the sight of Billy’s disfigured corpse, who would never be quite the same again, who would always equate University with that one defining moment. He counted himself amongst their number.
Sophie knocked on the office door and Lambert closed the screens with a single punch of the keypad.
‘Hungry?’
‘I had something earlier, thanks.’
‘Working?’ asked Sophie, unable to hide the hope in her voice.
‘Sort of.’
She hesitated by the door. ‘That’s good.’ She was holding back, wanted to find out more but was probably afraid of how he might respond.
Lambert stared ahead at the blank computer screens, desperate to get on with work, ashamed that he didn’t know how to talk to his estranged wife any longer.
‘Okay, just popping out for dinner.’
‘See you in the morning,’ said Lambert.
Sophie shut the office door and Lambert returned to the computer screens. He had to blank out what was happening in his marriage for the time being. He returned to the screens and read through the case details uploaded onto the HOLMES system.
In oculis animus habitat. The soul dwells in the eyes.
During the weeks following Nolan’s murder there had been much discussion as to the meaning of those words. The SIO at the time, DCI Julian Hastings, had questioned Lambert about his understanding of the words. Lambert had studied Latin in school but couldn’t translate the words exactly without looking it up.
Billy Nolan had been the ninth and, supposedly, final Souljacker victim. Now, from nowhere, the killer was back.
From her notes, Lambert read that DI May had begun researching the older cases. The first victim, Clive Hale, had been murdered over twenty two years ago, the next eight victims falling foul of the Souljacker over a period of four years. May had assigned a number of junior officers the duty of trawling through witness reports and suspect interviews. During the Nolan investigation, a local surgeon, Peter Randall, had been the chief suspect, but the case had never gone anywhere near the courts. There had been no forensic evidence and Randall had a clear alibi for the time of the murder. It had been the only significant arrest there had ever been on the case.
Lambert had kept in contact with DCI Hastings after the murder. Hastings had offered him advice on joining the force. Now a retired Chief Superintendent, Hastings had stayed obsessed with the Souljacker cases even into retirement. If May had any sense, Hastings would be the first person she contacted.
Lambert clicked a button on his keyboard and sat back in his office chair. DI Sarah May’s file on the latest killing played through his six computer screens in a reel of information. Lambert sat transfixed and absorbed the material. He often worked this way, viewing the details from an abstract position searching for a key word, sentence, or picture that would change everything.
The same age as Lambert, Vernon had worked as a retail manager for a large supermarket in the Cribbs Causeway area of Bristol. Described by family, friends, and colleagues as a shy, awkward sort of person, his hard work ethic had helped him reach a reasonable level in his career. Vernon was single. He had divorced parents and no siblings. He had strong links with a local evangelical church, Gracelife Bristol, the minister of which, Neil Landsdale, had described Vernon as a hard-working and selfless member of his congregation who ‘would be sorely missed’.
Lambert watched unblinking as the pages scrolled across the screens. He read and reread the information until something made him pause. It was a picture of Vernon, taken with his work colleagues at the supermarket. Vernon towered over everyone else. Thin and ungainly in an ill-fitting shiny polyester suit, he was clean shaven with short cropped hair, a well-defined face with high cheekbones, and strong jaw.
Lambert couldn’t make out the colour of his eyes. He stared hard at the image of Vernon, a memory returning to him. He clicked onto another screen and accessed details on Vernon’s personal file. He scanned down the file and stopped at Terrence’s mother, Sandra Vernon. He clicked on her name.
It took him less than sixty seconds to find out what he was looking for.
Sandra Vernon’s married name was Sandra Haydon. She had officially divorced Terrence’s father, Roger Haydon fifteen years ago, though they had separated when Terrence was a child.
Lambert reloaded the photo of the victim, Terrence Vernon. Lambert cursed under his breath. Terrence must have changed his surname to his mother’s maiden name.
At University, Lambert had known him as Terrence Haydon.
Chapter 3 (#ua65e9baf-bb2e-56cb-af47-5440b2121e3c)
Lambert emailed DI May requesting a meeting for the following day. He didn’t share any information on the photos he’d received from Klatzky. He wanted to meet the woman face to face. After which he would decide if he wanted to take his personal investigation any further.
The fact that Klatzky had been sent the photos was obviously hugely significant but Lambert needed to know why he’d been sent them before he shared the details with anyone. His first thought was that the photos were a warning but the more he thought about it the less likely that seemed.
It came down to the sender. Lambert’s gut told him the killer had sent the photos and there was no logical reason for him to send a warning. It was possible the killer was playing a game with Klatzky. Like Lambert, Klatzky had been there the day Billy Nolan’s body had been found. Klatzky had been closer to Billy than anyone, and his life had spiralled out of control ever since Nolan’s death. Why the killer wanted to involve Klatzky now after all these years was anyone’s guess at the moment but at least it was a starting point for Lambert to pin his investigation on. A second starting point was the possibility that the killer was using Klatzky to lure Lambert into action. A more worrying thought had also occurred to him: that somehow the killer was attempting to set them up.
A nervous energy ran through him as he printed up relevant parts of the file. It was good to be back working, even on something so close to him. He took the files to the small bedroom at the top of the house. It was sparsely decorated with a single bed, desk, and chair, the flat screen television which hung on the wall taking up most of the space in the room. He flicked through the channels, unable to find anything of interest. He checked his email on his phone noticing that Klatzky had emailed him five times since their meeting, becoming more incoherent with each email. By the final email his words made little sense.
Lambert switched off the television and closed his eyes. His body hummed with tension, his chest tight as if an invisible weight pushed down on him. Eventually, the first flicker occurred. A fiery orange glow appeared to his left and blossomed into a collage of bright colour taking over his entire visual field. Infinite shades of red, yellow, and orange began to fade as his breathing slowed and he fell asleep.
He slept for three hours and reached Paddington station by six a.m. The station already teemed with commuters. Lambert booked his ticket and ordered a large black coffee from one of the shops in the large open-spaced concourse. He stretched his legs, alert and awake despite the meagre hours of sleep.
Lambert had survived most of his adult life on three to four hours a night and hadn’t suffered any detrimental side effects until four years ago when the hallucinations started. They occurred when he was overly tired or stressed. He had self-diagnosed his condition as a rare form of narcolepsy. It was something he’d never had checked out, fearing that an official diagnosis would affect his work. He had learned that the hallucinations were a signal that he was ready for sleep. He could control them now, to an extent. Unfortunately, that had not always been the case.
Lambert drank the bitter coffee, impatient for the train to arrive. May had yet to respond to his request for a meeting. He would give her until nine a.m. to reply to his email or his first destination would be her police station. Lambert watched the commuters and wondered if his own face mirrored the dull and sullen faces which hurried by him, everyone impatient and tired.
A different type of figure emerged from the set of escalators which rose from the underground. The unsteady figure of a man dressed in faded jeans and tattered leather jacket staggered towards him.
‘Great,’ whispered Lambert to himself. He considered hiding from the figure but Klatzky had already spotted him.
‘Mikey,’ he said, a little too loud. ‘I knew you would be here.’ Klatzky embraced him.
Competing odours overwhelmed Lambert. Sweat, cheap aftershave and stale nicotine were all linked by the reek of alcohol. Lambert kept his hands by his sides, tried to breathe through his mouth. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Simon?’ Despite the revulsion at Klatzky’s state, Lambert could not help but admire the man for finding him.
‘I knew Bristol would be the logical place for you to start,’ said Klatzky, slurring half of his words. ‘You never sleep, so it would have to be the first train. I’m coming with you.’
Lambert took a couple of steps back. ‘You’re not going anywhere, except home. Do you have any idea what you look like? What you smell like for that matter? I wouldn’t even sit in the same carriage as you let alone share a train journey.’
‘I need to come with you, Mikey. Look, I’m not afraid to admit it but I’m scared. He’s back. I want to know what’s happening, why he sent me the pictures. You told me not to go home, so I didn’t.’ Klatzky eyes darted around the station, as if he was surprised by his location.
Lambert shook his head. ‘You’ve been out all night?’
Klatzky shrugged his shoulders, a grin spreading across his face.
This was the last thing he needed. ‘Jesus. Listen, I’ll keep you informed. Where are you staying? Go and sleep it off. It’ll do you no good coming with me to Bristol.’
‘I need to know, Mikey,’ insisted Klatzky. He placed a shaking hand on Lambert’s shoulder, the leathery skin laced with wrinkles and a fine layer of black hair, the hand of a much older man. Lambert tried not to recoil from the touch.
The train was about to depart. Lambert took another step back and Klatzky’s shaking hand fell away. If the killer had sent Klatzky the file to get Lambert involved then the fear he saw in his friend’s eyes was at least partly his responsibility. ‘Okay, Simon. You can come with me but you can’t interfere. Is that understood?’
‘You’re a saint, Mikey,’ said Klatzky.
‘Shall we go then?’
‘I need a ticket,’ said Klatzky.
‘Oh I see. I’ll get you one on the train.’
Mercifully, Klatzky fell asleep before the train pulled out of Paddington station. He collapsed in a heap, his frail body lying at an awkward angle in the seats opposite Lambert.
Lambert opened his holdall and searched its contents. He pulled out a newspaper, and the file he had compiled on the Souljacker murders. There was still nothing from May on his phone. The conductor approached and Lambert purchased a return ticket for Klatzky with his credit card.
Klatzky snored himself awake as the train pulled into Swindon. His body spasmed, his head cracking against the underside of the table with a thud. Lambert tried not to laugh as the man composed himself.
‘How long have I been asleep?’ said Klatzky, rubbing his head.
‘Fifty minutes or so.’
Klatzky dusted himself down, his aged leather jacket creaking at each movement. He shuffled himself into position, sitting opposite Lambert. A waft of pungent air drifted across the table.
‘Your ticket,’ said Lambert.
‘Thanks, I’ll pay you back.’
Lambert stopped the woman pushing a drinks trolley down the aisle of the carriage.
‘Coffee,’ groaned Klatzky.
‘Make that two,’ said Lambert. They sat for a while in silence. Klatzky wincing as he took the occasional sip of coffee.
‘What happened to us eh, Mikey?’ said Klatzky a few minutes later.
Lambert was reading one of the three books he’d brought with him, a mostly useless textbook on lucid sleeping. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you remember those train journeys we used to take to Bristol on our way to University? We’d be half cut by now.’
‘You are half cut.’
‘Maybe,’ said Klatzky. ‘What happened to you, anyway? You were so happy go lucky then. You didn’t take anything seriously, not even your degree. Now look at you.’
‘That was twenty years ago, Simon.’ Lambert linked his hands together and rested his chin on them, staring at Klatzky.
In response, Klatzky leant towards him. Pointing his finger, he said, ‘We all grow up, Michael, but you changed. You’ve changed intrinsically as a person.’
Lambert laughed, but felt his facial muscles tighten as his face reddened. ‘Intrinsically? What are you talking about, Simon?
