Dead Eyed

‘How long has this room been a cupboard?’ asked Lambert.

‘It’s always been a cupboard,’ said the woman.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Klatzky indignantly.

‘Listen, I’ve only been working here six years, love,’ said the woman.

‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’ said Lambert. ‘Could we possibly look inside?’

‘Suit yourself,’ said the woman, producing a key. ‘I haven’t all day, mind you.’

Shelves full of cleaning material and crisp folded sheets filled out the room. It bore no resemblance to the untidy and poster-ridden room which had once been Billy Nolan’s. The change of use had destroyed the room’s potency. Lambert had feared he would be overcome with more memories of that day. Now it was hard to believe the incident had ever occurred in such a space.

‘Let’s go,’ said Klatzky. ‘This place is giving me the creeps.’ His eyes sagged towards his cheeks, his lips trembling beneath the random spikes of black and grey hair which sprung from his sallow face.

‘Simon, go and get a coffee or something down in the cafeteria. I’m going to have a look around. I’ll meet you in ten minutes.’

Klatzky slumped off towards the lift. Lambert thanked the cleaner who locked the store cupboard giving him a confused and pitiful look. Once Klatzky was inside the lift, Lambert walked up the stairs to the sixth floor. He made a full circuit of the floor but couldn’t summon the memory of where Haydon had resided. A nagging sense told him that Haydon had lived almost directly above Billy Nolan but he couldn’t be sure. It felt too much of a coincidence. Before joining Klatzky for coffee, Lambert called Bristol CID and asked to be put through to DI May.

‘Can I ask what it’s regarding?’ enquired a female voice on the other end of the line.

‘Tell her it’s about the Terrence Vernon case,’ said Lambert. Thirty seconds later a strong deep female voice said, ‘DI May, how can I help?’

Lambert explained his position, telling May he was a former police officer who had important information about the Vernon case. Lambert presumed May had already discovered that Terrence Vernon was originally called Terrence Haydon, but wasn’t about to discuss the matter over the phone.

‘Where are you now?’ asked May.

‘In Clifton.’

‘Okay, there’s a little café on The Triangle called Liberties. Could you meet me there at midday?’

‘Done,’ said Lambert.

Chapter 4

Klatzky sat alone in the student cafeteria, woefully out of place. Facedown, he nursed a small coffee occasionally giving the students a suspicious look. He was at once vulnerable and unsettling, and the café’s patrons subconsciously sat as far away from him as possible.

After Klatzky declined his offer of a second coffee, Lambert ordered a large black Americano from a young man behind the counter. Klatzky looked up at him with sullen eyes when he returned. ‘I thought I’d enjoy being here, Mikey, but there are way too many memories. Being here makes it feel like it happened yesterday. I can remember everything, what that sicko did to his body.’ Klatzky sipped at his coffee. ‘Christ, and the smell, Mikey. I can taste it now more than ever. Do you ever feel like that? It’s part of me now. The blood and the smell…what was that stuff called?’

‘The incense?’

‘Yeah.’ He took another longer sip of his coffee as if trying to drown out the memory. ‘One good thing came out of it though,’ he quipped, ‘I never went back to church again. Too much incense in Catholic churches. I don’t even feel the need to go to confession.’

‘Small mercies, I guess,’ said Lambert. Pontifical incense had been found on the body of each Souljacker victim, and Billy Nolan had been no exception. Traces of the incense, which contained frankincense, matched that used by a number of Catholic churches in the country. However, the substance was freely available so it had proved impossible for any trace to be made.

‘Listen, Si, I have a meeting later with the officer in charge of the case. I have some information that she may or may not know.’

‘Okay,’ said Klatzky.

‘The body they found last week, the body in the pictures you showed me, were of somebody called Terrence Vernon.’ Lambert tensed waiting for Klatzky’s response.

‘Terrence?’

‘Yes, Terrence. I found out last night that Terrence Vernon was using his mother’s maiden name as a surname. He used to be called Terrence Haydon. Do you remember Terrence Haydon, Si?’

‘Mad Terry?’ Klatzky’s face fell, his eyes wide in recognition. ‘He killed Mad Terry? Fucking hell, Mikey. What does this mean? What the hell’s going on?’ His words came out in short, rapid bursts, oblivious to the other people in the room.

‘Keep it down, Si,’ said Lambert, through gritted teeth. A few of the students looked in their direction. Mad Terry had been the uninspired nickname given to Terrence Haydon whilst at University. The nickname resulted from a few eccentric behaviours, such as walking with long, exaggerated steps as he made his way around. ‘I don’t know. It’s partly why I need to see DI May. There are so many possibilities at this juncture it’s not worth hypothesising.’

Klatzky gripped Lambert’s wrists, his hands sweaty. ‘But Billy hardly knew Mad Terry, what’s this to do with anything?’

Lambert unpeeled Klatzky’s fingers, and, grimacing, wiped the sweat off onto the plastic table covering. ‘It could mean anything or nothing,’ he said, softening his voice. ‘Maybe the killer thought Haydon knew something about him.’

‘After all this time?’

‘It’s a possibility. Perhaps Haydon contacted the authorities. There’s no way for me to know until I look into it in more detail.’

‘What if the killer’s coming after everyone involved in Billy’s killing? Everyone who knew him?’

‘Don’t be dramatic, you need to snap out of this. If he’s going to kill someone once every eighteen years there’s a good chance that we’re all going to be safe. Listen, I need to go. I’m not sure how long I’ll be but I’ll call you when I’m finished. Try to get some rest somewhere.’

‘Where do you suggest?’ asked Klatzky.

‘I don’t know. Find a sofa. But stay away from the bars.’

‘Any other orders?’

‘No.’

Lambert reached the coffee shop thirty minutes early. Like London, Bristol basked in the heat of the Indian summer. A number of people sat outside the glass-fronted café. One of the crowd, a woman with shoulder-length black hair, stood up as Lambert walked towards the entrance. ‘Mr Lambert?’ she said.

Lambert turned to face the woman. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m DI May. Sarah.’

‘How did you know who I was?’

‘Forgive me,’ said May, not once taking her gaze away from him. ‘Can I get you a coffee and perhaps we can go inside and talk.’

‘Decaf, thanks,’ said Lambert.

A blast of cold air hit Lambert as he entered the high-ceilinged coffee shop, at first refreshing then uncomfortable. DI May directed him to a small booth with high wooden benches. She returned with two drinks and smiled as she sat down opposite him. Her large brown eyes shone bright, full of confidence and intelligence. She wasn’t wearing make-up and Lambert wondered if her looks were a benefit or hindrance in her professional life. From his experience, he imagined it was probably a bit of both.

‘So tell me DI May…’

‘Sarah, please,’ said the woman with a soft, yet firm voice.

‘Sarah. Tell me what you found out about me?’

DI May leant forward in her chair, her gaze remained steady, never once leaving Lambert’s eyes. Most people would have found her glare unnerving, would have felt obliged to look away, but Lambert matched her look. She spoke with a sly amusement. ‘Well, first of all, possibly most importantly, I know you’re a friend of the last Souljacker victim, Billy Nolan. In fact, Mr Lambert …’

‘Please, Michael.’

May squinted her eyes. ‘Michael. You were initially a suspect.’

Lambert crossed his arms, deciding not to answer.

‘Of course, you were one of many potential suspects and were cleared very early on in the case.’

Lambert’s eyes widened, prompting the DI to continue.

‘After graduation you were accepted into the accelerated programme, where you excelled.’ She nodded in admiration, and let out a small laugh. ‘You moved up the ranks and reached DCI.’

Impressed by her research, Lambert didn’t interrupt.

‘And then the mystery.’

‘The mystery?’

‘Yes, six years ago your work becomes classified. I received a phone call from a Chief Super this morning for trying to access the details.’

‘Which one?’

‘Tillman.’

‘Right.’

‘So can you fill in those blanks for me, Michael?’

‘Afraid not. As the file says, classified.’ Lambert hadn’t given much thought to his personnel file before though it was obvious that his work with Tillman was classified. The blanks coincided from when he’d joined The Group. He made a mental note to access it later on The System. Although government sanctioned, in many ways the organisation were a law unto themselves. Their remit had been to investigate politically sensitive cases, and as such the need to avoid public scrutiny. It had been a tough transition for Lambert moving from normal CID to The Group. He’d found out early on that it was a balancing act. They’d worked out of the same offices as other task forces, and were supposedly subject to the same governing rules, but at times Lambert had been given leeway he’d never experienced before. The small team had been issued firearms and had received military intelligence-level training. Lambert had known it was somewhat of an experiment, and from his meeting yesterday Tillman wasn’t about to tell him if things had changed.

‘But apart from that, you’ve done very well, Sarah.’

She shot him a glance, but he could tell she knew he was teasing her. ‘So what can you tell me, Michael?’

Lambert didn’t want to be too pushy at the outset. ‘I’ve been doing a little reading on the case,’ he said.

‘Naturally,’ said May.

‘I was particularly interested in the victim, Terrence Vernon.’ He studied May for a response. If she was surprised she didn’t show it.

‘What about him?’

‘I was wondering how much you knew about him.’

‘How much information do you have on the case?’

‘As I said, I’ve read some notes.’

‘I understood you are not active at the moment. I read something on your file about an absence of leave?’ said May. The words were matter of fact, contained no hostility.

‘Something like that. I take it you’ve made the same connection I’d had about Mr Vernon.’

‘You’re talking about Mr Vernon’s other name?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was his mother who let it slip. I spent some time with her. She told me about her divorce and how Terrence had changed his name back from Haydon to Vernon after leaving University. From there, we made the link with Billy Nolan. They were at University together. He lived one floor above Billy Nolan.’ She paused. ‘One floor above you.’

Lambert paused, assessing the underlying words. ‘I needn’t have bothered you, then,’ he said.

‘You’re not bothering me. So tell me what else you know.’

‘Not much more than that,’ replied Lambert.

May’s face contorted into a half smile, half frown. ‘Oh come on, we’re not going to play those games are we?’

Lambert shrugged. ‘From what I can see it’s highly probably that it’s the same killer,’ he said, checking no one was eavesdropping.

‘Of course, you saw the original body. Your friend Nolan.’

Lambert thought back to the day when they’d kicked down Billy Nolan’s door. Nolan’s corpse with its bloodied sockets, lying naked on the bed. The smell, a terrifying mixture of death and decay, not fully masked by the overpowering perfume of the incense. Klatzky had been right. That smell was part of Lambert too. He could taste it now at the back of his throat. He took a large swig of his coffee mirroring Klatzky’s earlier actions. Once he’d composed himself he said, ‘The carving is the same. Identical. And the eyes. He was alive when they were removed?’ he asked, knowing the answer.

May pursed her lips. ‘They haven’t been recovered. Like the others. Were Nolan and Haydon friends at University?’

‘No. We all knew Terrence but he wasn’t what we’d call a friend.’

And what was he like as a person?’ May raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. A practised gesture which had no doubt obtained many a confession from helpless suspects.

‘I’m sure you know all this but he was bit of a strange one.’

‘Mad Terry,’ said May, surprising him once more.

‘Mad Terry. He was a nice enough guy, though. Intelligent. I assume he was hardworking because he was always at lectures. Never slept in. Hardly went out.’

‘Any enemies?’

‘No. People talked about him behind his back obviously, me included I’m afraid. He wasn’t a threat to anyone and no one had any grievance with him.’

‘No altercations with Nolan?’

‘Not as far as I’m aware. I would say it is highly unlikely.’

May ordered another coffee from the counter. Lambert asked for a glass of water, his bloodstream thick with caffeine. When she returned he tried to take the initiative. ‘So what are you working on at the moment?’ he asked.

‘Normal procedures. We’re looking into Haydon’s church. As before, there was incense at the crime scene so we’ve contacted local churches to see if any amounts have gone missing. But the problem with these guys is that they just don’t have strong stock control.’ She raised her eyebrows again, a completely different look to before. The gesture softened her face and made Lambert feel like she was being companionable.

‘We’re crosschecking the other murders too but the connection between this murder and Billy Nolan’s is our main focus at present. In fact if you hadn’t found me there was a good chance that I’d have had to find you.’

‘How can I help now?’ asked Lambert.

‘Maybe you could stick around for a bit. I could do with some insight on the Nolan murders, if that wouldn’t affect you too much? Obviously I would prefer it if you didn’t conduct your own investigation.’ Her eyes narrowed, Lambert understanding the warning. She hesitated for a beat, the first sign of indecisiveness he’d seen. ‘Perhaps we could meet for dinner this evening?’ she said.

‘Sure,’ said Lambert, a little quicker than he would have liked.

DI May stood up to leave. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you,’ she said, shaking his hand.

‘I’ll see you this evening,’ said Lambert. He relaxed as he watched May cross the floor of the coffee shop. The encounter had surprised him. May was more open than he’d expected, and he imagined how easy it would be to work with her.

As he was about to look away, May stopped and turned. ‘Oh, Michael. Please feel free to bring along Mr Klatzky this evening as well if you wish.’

Chapter 5

Light blazed through the office windows on the third floor of the Bristol Central Police Station. DI Sarah May pulled down the blinds in her temporary office, blocking the piercing September sun and opened the window an inch to allow fresh air into the musty-smelling room. After switching on her computer, for the second time that day she turned her attention to Michael Lambert’s file. She’d enjoyed meeting Lambert. So much so that she’d suggested they meet that evening. It had been an impulsive request which she’d convinced herself she’d made for professional reasons.

His file made for interesting reading. He’d joined the force a year after leaving University, joining the same accelerated programme she was on at the moment. After two years’ probation, he’d moved straight to CID. His training officer, Glenn Tillman, was now a Chief Superintendent working for the NCA.

Lambert worked in major crimes and had reached the level of Detective Chief Inspector by the time Tillman recruited him again for a division in SOCA. The trail went cold after that. Lambert’s last three years of service had been almost blanked from the records. Even her Super didn’t have the clearance required to access details on Lambert’s term in SOCA.

She dropped the file on the desk and stared at the photo supplied with the file. If it had been taken some time ago, it didn’t show. Lambert was six foot one with the kind of slim, wiry body she associated with athletes. The photo captured his sad, doleful hazel eyes but missed the lopsided grin she’d encountered during their meeting at the coffee shop.

It had been convenient he’d emailed last evening. It hadn’t taken her long to link him to Terrence Haydon. Lambert had been friends with the last Souljacker victim, Billy Nolan, eighteen years ago. May had subsequently discovered that Haydon had lived in the same halls of residence as Nolan and Lambert.

May placed her hands on her cheeks and stared at Lambert’s photo. He’d made a good lunchtime companion. Funny and intelligent, self-depreciating, he was the sort of man she’d always been attracted to. Still, he was definitely holding back on something. They had tiptoed around the case, each only sharing the minimum of information. She’d asked him not to start his own investigation. His response had been non-committal at best.

A shadow lurked behind the glass panelled door of her office. She recognised the shape.

‘Yes,’ she shouted.

DS Jack Bradbury opened the door. ‘Christ, bit fresh in here isn’t it?’

May had been so wrapped up in Lambert’s file that she hadn’t noticed the cold air leaking through the window. ‘Jack, what have you got for me?’

‘The file you wanted. Simon Klatzky. Bit thin, I’m afraid.’

‘Thanks.’

Bradbury dropped the file and exited the office without a word. They had dated, if it could be called that, for two months prior to May becoming an Inspector. It had been an impulsive thing, and like all her impulsive actions it was something she’d had to learn to live with. Two years later, and still he moped after her. They’d managed to keep the affair a secret back then. Now she wished they had been more open about it. That way they would never have ended up working together, and she wouldn’t have to see his wounded look every time she refused to pay him attention.

The file on Klatzky was indeed thin. Like Lambert, and fifty other students, Klatzky had been interviewed following the death of Billy Nolan. In his statement, Klatzky had declared that out of the small group of Nolan’s friends, he was probably the closest. His life following his friend’s death suggested that he had not taken the incident very well.

Klatzky had been a promising engineering student, and had left Bristol University with a first. Yet, he had never held down a significant job since graduating. Now there was an arrest warrant out on him for failure to appear at court following a bout of shoplifting. One of Lambert’s former colleagues had spotted Lambert and Klatzky arriving at Temple Meads station that morning. Knowing that May was working on the Souljacker case, and Lambert’s tenuous link, he had called May with the information. It had been worth it to see the look on Lambert’s face when she’d asked him to bring Klatzky along for dinner that night.

May stretched her legs, tensing her calf muscles. She hadn’t been for a run since Haydon’s body had been discovered. The lack of exercise filled her body with tension. She’d been struggling to sleep recently, her legs twitching her awake at night. She promised herself she would make time for a quick run that evening, before her meeting with Lambert. It would be negligent not to do so. Healthy body, healthy mind, as her father would say.

Talking of healthy body, she hadn’t had a coffee in nearly an hour. She walked to the small kitchen office and dropped some instant coffee into a mug. It wasn’t ideal but was the best available. Two DCs, Tony Chambers, and Lyle Coombes, stopped talking as she entered.

‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’ she asked.

‘No, ma’am.’

Both men worked on the Souljacker case. Clearly, they felt awkward with her presence in the kitchen but they were waiting for the kettle to boil so couldn’t leave the close confines of the room. She didn’t make it easy for them. She leant back on the sideboard and folded her arms, both men doing everything to avoid her gaze. Strange how a simple change of title could affect the way people interacted with you. How you interacted with them. ‘Any news for me?’

‘Um, no, ma’am,’ said Chambers. ‘We’ve interviewed some more of his work colleagues, and they all spouted the same stuff.’

‘Nice enough guy, kept himself to himself,’ said Coombes, gaining courage from his partner.

The kettle boiled. ‘Don’t mind if I jump the queue?’

The men shook the heads, desperate for her to leave.

Back at her desk, she examined the old case files. Ten Souljacker victims in a twenty-one year period, but an eighteen year gap since the last murder. She may have considered Haydon’s death a copycat had there not been the link between him and the last victim, Nolan.

Absurd as it sounded, they had called in a handwriting expert to compare the indentations ripped into the torso of Terrence Haydon, with that of the previous victims. Going on photographic evidence, the expert had suggested there was a high probability that the Latin carved onto the victims, In oculis animus habitat, was made by the same person.

‘How probable?’ May had asked.

‘Hard to say for sure. I could be more precise if I was judging perhaps his handwriting on a piece of paper, but I would say ninety to ninety-five percent chance. If the latest, um, inscription, was made by a copycat, for instance, then I would say they are an expert forger.’

Not only an expert forger, but an expert killer. It would take skill, along with an exceptional coldness to keep someone alive whilst you extracted their eyeballs. The inscription on the body would have taken hours. Each letter was always carved with extreme precision.

One anomaly had sprung up from the handwriting expert. He’d said that the writing on the first victim’s torso, Clive Hale, from twenty-two years ago, didn’t match the others. It was possible that it had been his first kill, and he’d been nervous, but the expert was adamant the writing was not the same as the others.

May opened the office door and called for Bradbury. He appeared two minutes later, the hound dog look replaced with a look of professional attention, as if he’d given himself a pep talk in the intervening minutes. She realised she shouldn’t be so hard on him. In retrospect, he’d always wanted more from their time together than she did. She could have, and should have handled it better. She made a mental note to speak to him about it.

‘Jack, do you know anything about the SIO on the Nolan case all those years ago? Julian Hastings?’

Bradbury stood by the desk. ‘Not much more than I’ve read in the file. He was working here until the late nineties. I heard he was a bit of an old school copper. Bit strict. Not hugely talkative. From what I’ve heard the Nolan case fucked him up a bit.’

May looked up from her file for the first time since Bradbury had entered.

‘Sit down, Jack, for Christ’s sake.’

Hastings had retired six years earlier with the rank of Chief Superintendent, having spent his last eight years in Kent. ‘How was he fucked up, as you so eloquently put it?’

‘He became a bit obsessed with it, you know how it is. Rumour has it that was why he left the city. You know he’s a writer now?’ said Bradbury.

‘Yes, I picked up one of his titles today. Blood Kill.’ May picked up the book from her desk. A crude paperback, the words BLOOD KILL taking up half of the cover in a thick maroon font.

‘Catchy title. Wonder what it’s about?’

May offered him smile. ‘Read any?’

‘One. His first one. Can’t even remember the name now.’

‘Memorable then?’

‘I’m no expert. You could tell he was a copper though. Had all the procedures down to a tee. And the violence, though there wasn’t enough of that.’