Dead Lucky. Matt Brolly
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The midday sun bounced off the glass panels and a drip of sweat tumbled down Lambert’s forehead. He wiped it away with a brush of his hand, for a moment feeling completely isolated. Work had helped divert his attention but still his thoughts returned to his wife and her newborn child. The thought of Chloe’s sister made him feel even more alone. He tried to shake the sense that Sophie would start a new life away from him and he would be left with his desolate bedsit and what remained of his career.
He walked through the revolving doors to the press building and after signing in took the lift to the fortieth floor. The doors pinged open to a hive of activity. A vast, open-plan workspace, filled with journalists working at their laptops and PCs. It was a stark contrast to the press rooms of old – the smoky, booze-fuelled workplaces where the hacks used to scratch out stories amongst the background of expletive banter. No one paid any attention as he walked across the office floor. He smirked as he passed a row of journalists working at stand-up desks, and knocked on an office door at the other end of the room.
A young woman, late twenties at most, opened the door and appraised him, assessing him in one quick glance as if she could see directly into his soul. ‘DCI Lambert?’ she said, holding out her hand.
Lambert shook hands, trying hard to hide his confusion.
‘Mia Helmer. You look surprised, Mr Lambert.’
‘Sorry, old habit. I’m ashamed to say I was expecting someone…’
‘More male?’ said the woman, showing him into her office.
‘Actually no. I was going to say, older, but I guess that’s not appropriate either.’
The woman took a seat behind a vast glass desk, adorned only by a laptop. Her face broke into a smile for the briefest of seconds before returning to her default look, which was an unreadable mask. ‘You wanted to speak to me about Eustace?’ she said pointing to a seat opposite.
‘Yes, thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I’m afraid it is really crucial that this conversation is off the record for the time being.’
Mia raised her eyebrows. Helmer was the crime editor for the paper, Sackville’s direct line manager. ‘So what do you have to tell me?’ she said, noncommittal.
‘I’m afraid Mr Sackville’s wife was found dead in her apartment yesterday evening.’
If the woman was surprised she hid it well. Lambert had met professional poker players who gave away more signs of emotion. She didn’t reply so he continued talking. ‘At the moment we’re treating the death as suspicious,’ he said, unable to blank out the images of Moira Sackville tied to a chair, her pale body leaking blood into the pool of black liquid by her ankles.
‘Well okay, this is the first I’ve heard of it so you must be doing something right. I imagine you think Eustace is involved somehow or you wouldn’t be here. Am I correct?’
Lambert was stunned by the woman’s coldness. ‘Yes and no. We don’t want this being publicised at the moment so I do have to insist it stays off record before I tell you any more details.’
‘So you’re offering me an exclusive?’
‘Something like that, but I need you to wait before you run the story.’ Lambert had only been in the office for five minutes but already he could understand how the woman had reached her senior position in such a short space of time. She had a natural authority about her. A cool charisma which he imagined helped her control even the most hardened of hacks.
‘Give me all the details and we can decide on a time for release. But I’ll tell you now, I won’t wait any longer than twenty-four hours – especially seeing as one of my journalists is involved.’
‘Fine,’ said Lambert. He was surprised that the story had yet to leak anyway. He told her all the details about Moira Sackville’s murder. How Eustace had been present, cuffed to one of the chairs and made to watch.
‘Christ,’ said Mia, losing her composure for a split second. ‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s in hospital. We have a police officer with him.’
‘You don’t think he…’
Lambert shook his head. ‘No, but obviously we can’t rule anything out completely yet.’
‘Who else knows?’
‘No one, apart from the professionals involved,’ said Lambert, doubting his own words. Matilda Kennedy had interviewed one of Moira’s friends so the chances were that the word was out already.
‘I need to run this,’ said Mia.
It was inevitable the story would be public in a matter of hours. ‘Not yet. Answer my questions and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘I’ll need to speak to Eustace as well.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Is he under arrest?’
‘No, but he’s under strict medical supervision. You wouldn’t be allowed. But work with me and I’ll let you know when he’s free to talk.’
‘What do you need to know?’
‘Everything you can give me on Eustace. What’s he been working on recently?’
‘Not much. Look, Eustace is a special guy. He’s very much respected here.’
‘But?’ said Lambert.
‘He hasn’t been submitting much copy of late. He’d told me he was working on a long term project. People trafficking in and out of London. He had a bee in his bonnet about some local businessman who he believed was working with a group from Croatia. All well and good, but he hasn’t submitted anything for us in nine months and yet we still pay him.’
‘Who was the local guy?’
Helmer looked at her laptop. It was clear she knew the answer and was debating whether to share the information with Lambert.
‘He was investigating a local businessman called Curtis Blake. From what I can ascertain, he is legit. That’s all I can tell you. If you want more details you’ll have to speak to him yourself.’
‘Anything else you can tell me about him? Is he particularly friendly with anyone in the office?’
‘We hardly ever saw him. I had the odd report of people seeing him in local bars but other than that he kept himself to himself over the last few years. There were rumours – rumours, mind you – about marriage problems. But people like to create stories about people they don’t regularly see, especially here.’
Lambert handed her his card. He didn’t believe her. He was sure Mia knew exactly what Eustace was up to, and the truth of any rumours. ‘Please let me know if you remember anything else.’
The editor nodded, dropping the card onto her desk. ‘Perhaps we can work together on this,’ she said. ‘I can send someone around to meet you.’
‘Once you’re ready to be more forthcoming, let me know,’ said Lambert. ‘Until then, I suggest you speak to our press office.’
He called Kennedy outside the newspaper offices. Her meeting with Prue McKenzie had been more of a success. She’d already arranged a meeting with Charles Robinson, a criminal barrister, at his chambers in Holborn.
Lambert caught the tube and arrived in Holborn before Kennedy. He waited for her in a coffee shop chain close to Holborn station.
He was halfway through his drink when she arrived. She nodded over and gestured with her hand, enquiring if he wanted another drink.
‘You looked pleased with yourself,’ he said, noting the spring in her walk as she approached.
‘It happens occasionally. How was your meeting with the editor?’
‘Unproductive.