Dead Lucky. Matt Brolly
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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.’
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,’