Dead Lucky. Matt Brolly
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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.’
‘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.