Dead Eyed

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

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?

Klatzky slumped back in his seat. ‘If you don’t know what I’m talking about then there’s no point in explaining,’ he said. He drank the last of his coffee, screwing his eyes shut as he downed the dregs.

Lambert thought about continuing the bizarre argument, realising it was pointless arguing with Klatzky when he was in this mood. He opened his newspaper and spent the rest of the journey skimming through the despairing stories, his thoughts constantly returning to the file in his jacket pocket and what it all meant. At face value, it didn’t make much sense. Serial killers like the Souljacker didn’t just take eighteen years off between killings. If it was the same killer then there must have been a reason for the killer to have stopped in the first place, and more importantly a catalyst which had propelled him back to work.

Once in Bristol, they ordered breakfast at a small greasy spoon café outside Temple Meads station. Klatzky’s head drooped as they waited for their orders, his hangover clearly reaching its peak.

A teenage girl in a pink apron placed their breakfasts on the table. She grinned, the white of her teeth obscured by a thick metal brace. Piling his fork with a mixture of sausage, bacon and egg, Klatzky perked up. With his mouth half full he mumbled, ‘So what are our plans for today?’

‘Well, I plan to go to the University and have a look at our old halls of residence. And if I haven’t heard back from her I’m going to call the lead investigator on the case.’

‘Are we going to get a hotel?’ asked Klatzky, slicing through an egg yolk smothered in ketchup.

‘No, I want to be out of this place by the end of the day.’

‘Oh come on, Mikey, we could visit some old haunts. For old times’ sake.’

Lambert turned his face to the side, stretching his neck muscles. ‘It’s not a jolly, Simon. You asked me to help. This is work for me.’ He already regretted allowing Klatzky to accompany him on the journey, and sensed things were only going to get worse.

Klatzky returned to his breakfast, sulking like a scolded child. ‘I was thinking of calling the others,’ he said, a couple of minutes later. He finished his breakfast, wiping his plate clean with a thin slice of white bread. He looked Lambert in the eyes for the first time since they’d left the train.

‘That’s not a good idea,’ said Lambert.

‘Why not? We haven’t all been together for years,’ said Klatzky.

There had been six of them in their group. They’d spent their three years at University together as the tightest of cliques, all deciding to reapply for halls in the third year. ‘There’s a reason for that, Simon.’ Lambert placed some money on the table and left the café before Klatzky could argue further.

Over the years, Klatzky had been the only one who had tried to keep the group together. There had been the occasional impromptu reunion every few months after they’d graduated but the get-togethers had never been successful. They would initially start off well but after a few drinks it always became apparent that everyone was avoiding talking about Billy Nolan; it would reach the point where someone would mention his name just to break the tension.

Then the bad memories would return and the drinking would intensify until everyone reached a state of maudlin drunkenness which would occasionally descend into bouts of violence.

The others had all managed to put the Nolan incident behind them to one extent or another. Lambert knew getting the group together again would only reignite bad memories.

They caught a taxi from the long line of black cabs outside the station. ‘You’re a bit young to be students,’ said the rotund taxi driver, after being told their destination.

‘We’re alumni,’ said Lambert, his tone suggesting that all forms of communication between the driver and his two passengers should now cease. Lambert had only returned to Bristol occasionally over the last eighteen years, mainly for work. The city had transformed in that time but the changes had been gradual. Lambert couldn’t date any of the buildings. It was only when the taxi pulled up outside their destination that he felt a stab of nostalgia. Klatzky was almost tearful as they left the car.

‘Can’t you feel it in your bones, Mikey?’ he said, stretching his arms out as if he wanted to embrace the building.

Memories came to Lambert. Glimpsed images of the numerous nights out he’d enjoyed with his friends, of the girls he’d kissed, each memory tainted with the image of Billy Nolan, dead in his room.

Inside, Lambert had to produce his old warrant card before the grey-haired man behind the security desk would allow them entry into their old hall of residence. They took the unsteady lift to the fifth floor, Lambert enduring the odour which resulted from Klatzky’s lack of personal hygiene. ‘When did you last shower?’

‘I was out all night before I met you at Paddington.’

‘Of course you were,’ said Lambert. Lambert had yet to tell Klatzky about Terrence Haydon. Klatzky was in too fragile a state at the moment to take in the news that he’d once known the latest victim.

None of them had known Haydon well. He’d been an odd character who, like the report suggested, kept himself to himself. The other students had considered Haydon as somewhat of an eccentric. He’d studied Religious Studies and always carried a Bible with him, though Lambert could never recall him trying to push his views on anyone. He wasn’t even sure Haydon had been that religious. He couldn’t remember him being a member of the Christian Union.

Although the halls had been refurbished they looked essentially the same to Lambert. More memories came to him, mostly childish recollections of late-night drinking, water fights in the corridor, desperate early mornings of coffee-fuelled revision and the occasional romantic encounter. Klatzky was once again close to tears. Lambert knew the man’s hangover was intensifying his emotional response but it didn’t make it any easier to endure.

‘Why are we here, Mikey?’

‘I thought it would do good to reacquaint myself,’ said Lambert. He didn’t want to explain to Klatzky that he wanted to revisit the beginning from a professional viewpoint. He had been in his early twenties when Nolan’s life had been taken. Lambert had been just another dazed student at the time. Although it was nearly twenty years later, Lambert thought there might be the opportunity to see something afresh. Something he may have missed, or had not been looking for all those years before.

A middle-aged woman in a blue checked apron stopped them both. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, in a deep West Country accent.

Lambert flashed his old warrant card. ‘I wanted to see Room 516,’ he said. When the cleaner showed him to a room halfway down the corridor Lambert realised the room numbers had been rearranged. The fifth floor had a rectangular corridor and Nolan’s room had been on the left-hand side corner with the window facing east onto the main road. Lambert followed his memory to where Nolan’s room should have been. On the door where Nolan had once lived hung a sign marked Storage Cupboard.