Dead Time Read online

  Dead Time

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue – Nine Months Later

  Also by Matt Brolly

  Copyright

  Dead Time

  Matt Brolly

  To Ann and Jim Eardley

  Prologue

  The street was desolate.

  A frigid wind ripped into his skin as he made his slow progress to the flat entrance. Cobwebs, crystallized like threads of silver, coated the bushes to the side of the building. He ran his gloved hand through the frozen string of the spider web before pushing multiple buttons on the intercom until he was admitted.

  He’d been here before.

  Fragments of frost dropped from his boots as he stamped them on the welcome mat, his nose twitching at the smell of damp and latent decay within the building’s walls. His confidence was justified, and he smirked as he placed the balaclava over his head and skipped up the steps to the third floor.

  There was no hesitation as he knocked at the door and displayed the gun to the corpulent man whose eyes flickered up and down, right to left, remembering.

  He struck him before he had time to speak and dragged him inside.

  ‘Strip,’ he ordered, glad now he’d come here alone.

  He ran the bath and watched him undress. The banality of it was bruising, the man shedding his clothes without objection. His pale body wobbled as he was guided towards the bathroom.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he pleaded.

  It was a common refrain, one he’d heard before, though never directly.

  Steam rose and swirled, clouding the mirror and bathroom window as hot water filled the bath. He pointed his gun to the water and the man climbed in.

  A victim entering a grave of his own making.

  ‘Do you remember us?’ he said, plugging the appliance into the extension cord.

  The man blinked, confused, staring at him like he was an apparition.

  ‘Let’s hope this works,’ he said, throwing the object into the air.

  It flew in an arc, the cord gliding through the steam like a bird’s tail, and landed with a burst of sparks.

  Chapter One

  The shrill of the alarm reverberated around the bedroom, within seconds accompanied by the piercing wail of a child screaming. DCI Michael Lambert’s left hand smashed down on the bedside cabinet in a blind and frantic search for his mobile phone. Murmuring a curse under his breath, his finger reached the screen and activated the snooze alarm. He rolled over in his bed, pleased to find no one was next to him, remaining that way for the following nine minutes entombed in the warmth of the duvet, caught between wakefulness and sleep, as the sound of the child’s crying faded.

  He accepted the second alarm, hitting the off button and sitting upright in bed lest he fall back to sleep. As usual he’d been late to bed and slept for only four hours, yet a quick splash of water on his face left him refreshed and ready, if not eager, to return to work.

  Lambert headed a special investigation unit at the National Crime Agency. It was a year since his work on the Waverley Manor case, a complex criminal case resulting in Lambert uncovering a paedophile ring known as the Manor. Eight successful prosecutions followed the investigation, since which Lambert had been investigating an international money-laundering scheme in the City of London.

  In those last twelve months, he’d moved back in with his estranged wife, Sophie, who was in the kitchen extension feeding Jane who stopped eating as he entered the room so she could turn her head and flash him a smile. Lambert returned the gesture and kissed the two-year-old girl – the girl he was learning to call his daughter – on her head, and poured a generous helping of coffee.

  ‘Can you drop her at the childminder?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Did you sleep in that suit?’ asked Lambert, puzzled as to how his wife could look immaculate so early in the morning.

  ‘You can take her any time after eight. I need to get in early,’ replied Sophie, grabbing a set of house keys from the sideboard and kissing him, then Jane, in one controlled motion before disappearing to the front door and before Lambert had time to object.

  ‘Looks like you and me, buddy,’ he said to the still smiling Jane, who was too busy eating a bowl of muesli to reply. Lambert wiped some spillage from the girl’s face, Jane continuing to eat throughout the onslaught, before answering the incessant ringtone on his mobile.

  It was DS Kennedy. ‘What can I do for you, Matilda?’

  ‘Sir, you’re needed at a crime scene. Suspicious death.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got at the moment. Summons comes from on high though. I’ve been ordered to meet you at the scene.’

  ‘From on high?’

  ‘From Glenn – I mean, Tillman.’

  Lambert drank his coffee, pleased with the taste of the Peruvian beans he’d received as a birthday present. Chief Superintendent Glenn Tillman was his direct superior. They’d worked together for years, and by this stage Lambert was rarely surprised by Tillman’s actions. Tillman was also in a relationship with the much younger DS Matilda Kennedy, a secret only Lambert was privy to. ‘Do you have an address at least?’

  ‘I’ll text it now. Could be a bit of a trek for you. It’s over in West Hampstead.’

  Lambert glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘That’s going to take me at least ninety minutes this time of the morning, and I’ve got to drop off Jane. Why have we been requested?’

  ‘Tillman’s been at his enigmatic best this morning. I think his exact words were, “Tell Lambert to get his arse there immediately, no questions asked.”’

  Lambert murmured. ‘Sounds like him. I’ll leave now but I doubt I’ll be there before ten.’

  ‘I’ll hold the fort, sir, and let you know when I have some more details.’

  Jane didn’t take kindly to being told she was off to the childminder. Lambert was thankful Sophie had already dressed her as he struggled to get her into her coat. ‘No,’ she said, sticking out her bottom lip and stamping her foot.

  ‘I see more and more of your mother in you every day,’ said Lambert, placing an oversized woolly hat on her head and wrapping a scarf around her be
fore scooping the girl in his arms.

  Despite her best efforts, Jane’s frown morphed into a smile and she giggled as he tickled her. ‘You’ll have a great time at Lorraine’s. All your friends will be there and Mummy will pick you up later,’ said Lambert, placing her back on the floor.

  Jane frowned again, a gesture at once comical and highly manipulative. There was so much of Sophie in her, as well as a troubling reflection of his other daughter, Chloe. Chloe died in a car accident when she was nine. Lambert was driving at the time, and the grief from the accident led to him and Sophie separating. He was not Jane’s biological father and had only moved back in with Sophie a year ago. Times like this were still difficult. He would always blame himself for Chloe’s death and feared Sophie did so too. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life looking at Jane and seeing Chloe. It wasn’t fair to her, and in his darkest moments he wasn’t sure it was a situation he could handle.

  ‘Daddy?’

  Lambert glanced down at Jane, surprised by the look of concern on her face. He knelt so they were at eye level. ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ he asked.

  ‘You looked sad, Daddy,’ she said, frowning.

  He’d spoken at length with Sophie about whether or not Jane should call him Daddy. Lambert had been hesitant and struggled to explain his apprehensions. Even after all this time he struggled to talk to Sophie about Chloe. Jane’s biological father, a partner in Sophie’s law firm, was still on the scene, but had taken a back seat since announcing a surprise marriage earlier that year, and six months ago Lambert legally adopted the girl.

  Lambert grabbed Jane and kissed her, ruffling her hair and causing her hat to fall off. ‘Oh, Daddy,’ she said, giggling.

  Lambert grabbed her again and smiled, wondering how he could ever have contemplated life without his little girl in it.

  * * *

  Jane made a frantic grab for him as he dropped her off at the childminder’s. He hated having to leave her even though she enjoyed her time there. She offered a sullen wave as he returned to his car, and he tried not to look into his rear-view mirror as he pulled away.

  As Lambert expected, the journey from Beckenham, on the border of South East London, to West Hampstead in the north of the City, was plagued by traffic. It was approaching Christmas and that, coupled with the seasonally bad weather, meant the roads were full. Temporary traffic lights lined the road out of Beckenham and he sat tapping his steering wheel, the heating on full. He thought about Jane, back at the childminder’s and considered turning the car around to pick her up. How easy it would be to spend the day at home, indoors, insulated from the near sub-zero temperatures, watching mindless television and spending quality time with his daughter.

  A sense of contentment had come over him since he’d moved back in with Sophie and he feared it was making him soft. It wasn’t quite the same as it was before Chloe’s death, but it was getting closer with each passing week. They slept in the same bedroom now, unlike the two years leading to their separation. It was still far from perfect. He missed the sense of security about their relationship. At times they tried too hard, too wary of upsetting one another, but he was in a better place than he’d once been and for that he was thankful.

  The traffic eased and he made slow progress over the river, before coming to a standstill outside Victoria station for twenty minutes. It was as if every car in London had decided to take to the road at the same time. Crawling past the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park, he viewed the towering rides and remembered the times he’d driven past with Chloe and how he’d discussed with Sophie the possibility of taking Jane there one day when she was older. In the morning gloom, without the lights, sounds and smells, the place took on a strange appearance. All mystery and excitement dissolved, and the fair had a sadness to it mirroring Lambert’s melancholy mood: half desperate to get to his destination, half reluctant to find out what was in store for him.

  It was an hour later before he pulled into West End Lane, an enclave of up-market cafés, restaurants and shops. He’d not heard back from Matilda so presumed he’d not been missed. He pulled in next to the police barrier tape erected on one of the side streets. The change in temperature as he left the vehicle was a shock; an icy wind blew in his ears as he retrieved his coat from the boot. A uniformed officer ran to him, about to tell him to move, before falling silent at the sight of Lambert’s warrant card.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ mouthed the constable.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ said Lambert.

  The PC gawped, confused by the question. ‘They’re all through there, sir,’ he said.

  Lambert lifted the collar of his jacket against the bitter wind and moved towards the group of officers congregating in the foyer of the apartment building. They were dressed in the white latex uniforms worn by the SOCOs: the scene of crime officers. With their hoods covering their hair, Lambert struggled to recognize any of their number. ‘DCI Lambert,’ he said to the gathered group, who had so far ignored him. One of the female officers who’d been standing alone walked over to him.

  ‘Do you have some ID?’ she asked, taking Lambert by surprise.

  Lambert took out his warrant card. ‘Who’s in charge here?’ he said.

  ‘They’re on the third floor. You need to put on one of these,’ she said, pointing to a plastic box containing a spare suit.

  With the extra layer of clothing, Lambert soon became overheated. Sweat coating his skin as he made slow progress upstairs. The door of Apartment Sixteen was ajar. Lambert recognized three of the faces in the living area. They stood side by side waiting for him to enter. All three were dressed in SOCO uniforms but none of them had their hoods pulled over their heads. The smallest of the three, DS Matilda Kennedy, smiled at him. The left side of her face, blotchy and red, crinkled as she made the gesture. The scarring on her face was the legacy of an explosion that had taken place a mile or so from their current location. Next to her was the bullish figure of Chief Superintendent Glenn Tillman who stared at him with his usual look of restrained violence, as if somehow Lambert was to blame for his being there.

  If Lambert was surprised by Tillman’s appearance he was shocked further to see Assistant Chief Constable Thomas Daly standing next to his boss. It wasn’t the kind of welcome party he’d envisioned. Something must be amiss for two such senior officers to be at the scene. Lambert nodded at Tillman. ‘Sir,’ he said to the Assistant Chief Constable.

  ‘Lambert,’ said Daly. ‘Good of you to make it.’

  Lambert, knowing better than to blame his late arrival on traffic, ignored the Assistant Chief’s ironic remark. ‘What do we have?’ he said.

  ‘Go look for yourself.’ said Tillman, clearly unhappy to be in the room with the Assistant Chief Constable.

  Matilda pulled the hood over her head. ‘This way, sir,’ she said, leading him down a small hallway to a bathroom. ‘Alistair Beckinsale,’ she said, pointing to the bloated corpse laying in the bath. ‘Fifty-four-year-old banker, recently divorced. We believe the cause of death is electrocution. When we arrived we found a digital radio, connected to the mains via an extension lead, in the bath with Mr Beckinsale.’

  ‘I assume the bath was full at this time,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Yes, the SOCO’s have drained the water. We left the body here so you could see for yourself.’

  Lambert was no expert on electrocution, though he’d seen similar cases before. He checked the body, the skin of the man’s shoulder blade a charred black, the smell of burning flesh still evident in the room. ‘Is there any sign of a struggle?’

  ‘No. The front door of the apartment was wide open and the bath was still running. Water was leaking into the apartment below, and fortunately the neighbour was in and came up to find this.’

  Lambert studied the area: the wide-eyed corpse in the bath; the damp patches on the floor. ‘Now stop me if I am being obvious here, Matilda, but have we ruled out suicide?’

  ‘Not completely.’

  ‘Not comp
letely? Then why the hell am I here?’

  ‘I think you better speak to Tillman, sir.’

  Lambert sighed and walked back to the living area where Tillman was deep in conversation with the Assistant Chief.

  ‘Recognize him?’ said Tillman.

  ‘No, should I?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Well, he recognizes you,’ said the Assistant Chief, handing him a clear plastic sheath with a piece of card inside it. ‘This was found in the bathroom.’

  Lambert took out the card and glanced at it to see in black ink the name: DCI Lambert.

  Chapter Two

  Lambert held the card in his hand, checking its weight. It was standard ruled card, A6 size. The hole in the left corner suggested it had been torn from a ring binder. His name was written in lead pencil.

  DCI LAMBERT

  Nothing else, simply his name in capital letters, each letter perfectly drawn, the lines straight, the curves immaculate as if the writer had used a stencil. The card itself was standard stock available from countless sources. Lambert placed the card back in its plastic sheath. ‘Is this it?’ he said.

  ‘First responding officer found it, and recognizing your name called head office immediately,’ said Tillman.

  Daly pursed his lips, a sound like escaping gas leaking from the small opening in his mouth. ‘Do you know this Beckinsale character?’ he asked.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Lambert, his tone sterner than intended.

  ‘Would you care to explain why this note is here, then?’ said Daly, picking up on his insolence.

  As Tillman subtly indicated, Lambert had attracted some notoriety over the last year. The Waverley Manor arrests involved a number of prominent businessmen. The national press picked up on the story, Lambert receiving some unwanted attention.

  ‘You think this is something to do with your fame?’ said Tillman, reading his thoughts and getting to the point.

  ‘Until I find out more about Beckinsale, then I would have to presume so. Yes, maybe Beckinsale saw my name in the paper and thought he would get more attention by leaving my name at the scene.’