Dead Time Read online

  Snow began to fall, and to the casual eye the white dusting on the ruins and evergreens would appear picturesque. But he could smell what lurked beneath. A thousand thoughts swarmed through his mind. He could no longer feel his toes, his fingers stinging beneath his leather gloves. He took one last glance and retreated back to his car a little faster than he’d approached.

  * * *

  His mood was not lifted by the debrief back at headquarters. On the crime board, pictures of Lance Jenkins and Alistair Beckinsale were connected to the two older cases of Thomas Powell and Dominic Webster. On the periphery of the board were photos of Will Fisher, his girlfriend and Nancy Beckinsale, but their images were there almost as an afterthought.

  Lambert conceded they had no credible suspect at present. No one with a motive to see both Beckinsale and Jenkins dead, let alone the wherewithal to get the job done.

  ‘I’m sure you’re aware now that Peter Saunders has escaped during a prison transfer,’ said Lambert to the group. It was still not official but the talk in the building over the last couple of days had been about little else, and Lambert was beyond caring about breaking procedure.

  ‘We had heard, sir,’ said DS Bickland with his West Country drawl. ‘You think this has some bearing on these cases?’

  ‘Honestly, Bickland, I have no fucking idea. All I can say is Saunders escaped the day Beckinsale was killed. I don’t believe he is a credible suspect but I would not rule out the Manor’s involvement.’

  ‘But who exactly are the Manor? As far as I can see they’re a group of perverts who have a tenuous link to one another. I’d thought they were all in prison,’ said Croft. Croft had been transferred to Lambert’s team during the Waverley Manor case and she’d worked out so well that he’d made the transfer permanent.

  In part it was a good question. The Manor was not an organization in a traditional sense and many considered it no longer existed following the arrests. Lambert knew different but had to be careful airing his views. ‘Someone broke Saunders out. He was transferred under category A security. It would have taken meticulous planning. Furthermore, there has been no sign of Saunders and one of his prison guards, John Prine, since his escape. He has disappeared with literally no trace.’ Lambert missed out the confidential part about the dead prison guard and police officer.

  ‘OK, let’s say the Manor are responsible for springing Saunders. Why target Beckinsale and Jenkins? Why the links to your old cases?’ said Matilda.

  Lambert glanced at the officers for inspiration.

  ‘A distraction?’ suggested Bickland.

  ‘Have we checked if Jenkins and Beckinsale are linked some way to the Manor? I imagine it’s difficult to link them but we could check if they had similar… interests,’ said Croft.

  ‘Worth a shot,’ said Lambert. ‘Get on with that, Gemma. Everyone else, more research on all four cases,’ he said, pointing at the board. ‘Matilda and Bickland, your focus is on Powell and Webster. See if anything was overlooked first time around. It could be we’ve missed the one thing linking those two cases. If we find that, we find the link to the current cases as well.’

  Lambert spent the rest of the afternoon on the System running cross-checks on the four victims, the various suspects, and everyone ever linked to the Manor. It was a haphazard approach but one which often proved fruitful. Data scrolled across his screen and he absorbed it all, trusting something would eventually click. He accessed his old notes on Powell and Webster, momentarily nostalgic for old paperwork and his former naivety.

  The Powell case had been a turning point for him. His extra diligence had led to Williamson’s conviction. He wondered what her life and her sister’s would be like had he not pursued it with such vigour. Would Williamson have helped her sister through her grief, forever encumbered with her guilt? Both women would probably be better off, not lost in different versions of their own private hell, but Lambert couldn’t dwell on that. Speculating on future recriminations was not his role, finding who was responsible: ‘hunting the bad guys’ as his first detective supervisor told him, was his only job. And it had seemed so much easier then.

  The internal phone buzzed and Lambert shut the computer. ‘Yes?’

  ‘DCI Lambert. We have an Inspector Duggan for you in reception. He’s from—’

  Lambert frowned. ‘I know where he’s from. Tell him to wait, I’ll be down in five minutes.’

  * * *

  Inspector Duggan worked for AC-10, one of the Met’s anti-corruption units. They’d come across each other on numerous occasions, and one thing Lambert could count on was that Duggan couldn’t be trusted.

  ‘Sergeant Duggan,’ said Lambert, mistaking his rank on purpose.

  Duggan got to his feet, his movements slow and calculated. As always he was immaculately dressed in a tailored suit and crisp shirt. Clean-shaven and hair cut with military precision. ‘DCI Lambert,’ he said. Lambert could tell he wanted to correct him, to announce his recent promotion to Inspector, but to his credit Duggan didn’t respond to his provocation. ‘May we speak?’

  ‘Is this official business?’ asked Lambert.

  ‘Of sorts,’ said Duggan, as evasive as usual.

  ‘This way. I’m using Interview Room Three,’ said Lambert to the duty sergeant, who waved his pen in response.

  Lambert had no time for pleasantries. ‘What can I do for you, Duggan?’ he said, taking the first seat in the room so Duggan had to walk past him.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point. There are major concerns about the articles in Mia Helmer’s newspaper. I wanted to give you the heads-up, see if I can help sort out this mess.’

  Lambert had been forced to work with Duggan in the Waverley Manor case. It had been an uneasy alliance at best and they hadn’t spoken since. Duggan wasn’t there to do him any favours. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers, Duggan. Even you know that.’

  Duggan’s smile revealed impossibly white teeth. He held the grin a beat too long. ‘It’s not just the papers though, is it DCI Lambert? I’ve read the files on the cases of Lance Jenkins and Alistair Beckinsale. Your name appeared on a card at both crime scenes. In the case of Lance Jenkins it was pinned to the deceased.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So Mia Helmer has a point, does she not?’

  Duggan was yet to discover the potential copycat links to Jenkins and Beckinsale and Lambert wasn’t about to inform him. ‘Are you really going to sit there and tell me you take the side of a journalist? A bloody dubious journalist I might add. All she ever prints is conjecture. She has a personal vendetta against me, Duggan, and for the life of me I cannot understand how this concerns anti-corruption.’

  Duggan held his hands up. ‘As I said, I’m here as a colleague. You know how these things work though. Should you really be working on a case where you’re linked to the murder scene? Is this good practice?’ asked Duggan, managing to combine condescension and smugness in every word.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Tillman is the SIO and he decided I was the best fit for the case.’

  Duggan visibly winced at Tillman’s name. He’d investigated Tillman at least once and had come off second best. ‘You think that’s advisable?’

  ‘I think it advisable I take my orders from my direct superior, don’t you, Duggan? Now, as your senior ranking officer, may I make the suggestion that you kindly fuck off?’

  Duggan’s mask slipped. ‘Have it your way, Lambert, as always. But be warned,’ he said, leaning in close. ‘You’re being watched. One more slip-up and it won’t be just me you answer to.’

  Lambert grimaced, leaning back from Duggan. ‘A little advice, Sergeant. Floss.’

  DI Duggan clenched his fist but didn’t respond as he exited the room.

  * * *

  Sophie was working late so Lambert picked up Jane from the childminder. She was usually hyper at this time of day and cried most of the way home. ‘Did Lorraine give you any dinner?’ he asked her, once they reached home.
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  ‘Yuck,’ said Jane.

  ‘Yuck?’

  ‘It was yuck,’ said Jane, as if he was stupid.

  ‘What did she give you?’

  ‘Meat,’ said Jane, screwing up her face in disgust.

  ‘What sort of meat?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Unidentifiable meat, hey? Would you like something else now? A sandwich perhaps.’

  Jane nodded and began pushing a baby doll in her toy pushchair.

  ‘Well, what do you want?’ said Lambert, chasing after her as she raced the pram down the corridor into the living room.

  ‘Sandwich,’ said Jane, with a hint of impatience.

  ‘What would you like in it?’ said Lambert, mimicking her voice.

  ‘Hummus, of course,’ said Jane.

  After eating they caught the end of children’s television; Lambert intrigued by the surreal images entrancing his daughter. ‘Bedtime,’ he said once the show ended.

  ‘Mummy.’

  ‘She’ll be home soon. I’ll get her to kiss you when she’s back.’

  Jane looked unconvinced but was happy to be carried to her room. Lambert read to her for five minutes before she fell asleep.

  Downstairs he began defrosting some food from the freezer. He was annoyed with himself for being so affected by Duggan’s visit earlier that day. He’d expected to draw some attention but having AC-10 involved helped no one.

  He ate alone, a single glass of red wine accompanying his dish of bolognaise. Sophie barely said a word to him when she returned. She looked exhausted, eating her food perfunctorily and refusing his offer of wine. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said once she’d cleared her plate.

  ‘Lovely to see you too,’ said Lambert.

  ‘I’m sorry. Busy day,’ she said, kissing him on the head. ‘I’m off tomorrow. I promise to give you some attention then,’ she added, teasing him.

  ‘Sleep well.’

  The wine made him drowsy but he was too wired for sleep. He retreated to his office and uploaded the System, scrolling through the day’s notes. Replaying everything he knew about the four cases over and over, his mind became overloaded until nothing was making any sense. He switched on the digital radio, tuned to 6 Music, the electronica pumping through the speakers intriguing but far from relaxing. He was about to turn it off when he heard a second underlying tone to the music which didn’t make sense.

  ‘Jesus, I must be tired,’ he said to himself, realizing the tune was from his burner phone.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, answering.

  ‘Michael. It’s Sarah. If you’re not busy can we meet? And maybe bring some overnight gear.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lambert agreed to meet Sarah in the car park of a twenty-four-hour supermarket close to the Blackwell Tunnel. He packed in a hurry, leaving a note in the kitchen for Sophie explaining his departure. It wasn’t the first time he’d left in such circumstances during their marriage and in the past it had led to arguments. Lambert was thankful Sophie was now off for most of the Christmas period, though he feared he would have some questions to answer when he returned.

  Sarah texted him her exact location and he found her car with little effort in the darkest corner of the car park, sheltered beneath a broken street lamp. Sarah’s face was illuminated by the dim glow of her mobile phone. Lambert left his car, checking out of habit he wasn’t being watched, and opened the passenger-side door.

  ‘What’s all the mystery?’ he said, sitting down next to her.

  Sarah told him about her meeting with Anna Saunders.

  ‘I met that woman once and can’t say I was particularly impressed. She was in denial, blaming everyone but herself,’ said Lambert.

  ‘That was my first impression and overall I think it’s a correct appraisal. However, she let her guard down at the end. I could tell the experience got to her. How wouldn’t it? She misses Saunders and I genuinely believe she doesn’t know anything about his escape.’

  ‘If that’s true, I’d be surprised if she wants him found.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. I don’t think he’s been in contact and that bothers her. She’s worried about him.’

  Peter Saunders was a pure psychopath. Lambert doubted he had any real feelings for his wife, not in the conventional sense. In his experience, men like Saunders took partners to create a veneer of normality. Like all of Saunders’ victims, he would have dropped his wife without a second thought and would never have risked contacting her. Lambert also understood such men could be charming, had the ability to create replicas of themselves people could love. Lambert had convicted men who came from seemingly perfect families, with wives and children who couldn’t believe what their spouse or father was capable of. If Anna Saunders was in denial it was because her husband created a character she had fallen in love with – a character far removed from his true self.

  Sarah told him about the farmhouse Saunders visited first as a child then on his honeymoon.

  ‘You think he actually went there as a child?’

  ‘Who knows, but I’m sure he went there with Anna.’

  ‘I take it I’m here because you haven’t told Partridge.’

  ‘There’s no fooling you, Michael.’

  ‘Why haven’t you told MI5?’

  ‘For one they are in Scotland, trawling the area of the family holiday home.’

  ‘And for two?’

  ‘Frankly, I just don’t trust them.’

  They took Sarah’s car. Where once they’d been so relaxed in each other’s company, Lambert sensed a growing tension. To break the silence, he told her about the visit he’d received from the newly promoted Inspector Duggan.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘You know him, likes to stick his nose in where it’s not wanted. Claims murmurs from above are that I shouldn’t be working on the case, that I’m too closely linked. He’s been reading too much of Mia Helmer’s work.’

  Sarah smirked. ‘He’s got a point.’

  ‘He probably does but I’m not walking away now. Unless Tillman decides otherwise.’

  ‘Really? You follow orders now?’

  Lambert paused. ‘Well, if he has a compelling reason I might. Until then, I consider it my case and I told Duggan as much. He kept going on about that bloody journalist as if he was working for public relations.’

  ‘She doesn’t like you, does she?’

  ‘She doesn’t appear to, no.’

  Lambert turned to face Sarah and matched her smile.

  ‘How’s Jane?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s good. A little cutie.’

  Lambert wondered if she would ask about Sophie and was glad when she began fiddling with the car radio, settling on a golden oldie channel.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ said Lambert, as a power ballad from the eighties came on.

  ‘Some people like to enjoy their music, Michael. We don’t all listen to the dour stuff you do.’

  ‘Dour?’ said Lambert, pretending outrage.

  Sarah turned the volume up. ‘Dour,’ she repeated.

  * * *

  The roads were clear and they made good time along the A12 and M11. ‘It’s a different world here,’ said Lambert, as a sign heralded their entry into Norfolk.

  ‘It’s not for us big city types, then?’

  ‘You’ll be OK,’ said Lambert. ‘You’re from Bristol, you share the culture.’

  Sarah frowned. ‘I think you’re being prejudiced against country folk, Michael. And be careful, I’ve told you before, I was working in Bristol when you met me, but I’m from London.’

  ‘So you say.’

  They reached their destination fifty minutes later. The roads had long become single track. With no street lighting, Sarah slowed her pace, taking her time on the winding country lanes.

  ‘Could we not have waited until the morning?’ said Lambert.

  ‘I’ve already waited too long to report my conversation with Anna Saunders. I’ll need to tell Partridge by the morn
ing. Why not see if we can find Saunders before then?’

  They parked half a mile from their destination, Sarah worried that if Saunders was there he would see them approach.

  ‘I gave up my lovely warm house for this,’ said Lambert, grabbing his coat and hat.

  ‘You’re not going to moan all the way there, are you?’

  ‘Not all the way. Sarah, you don’t really expect to find him, do you?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, Michael, you know that. You should have heard Anna talking about the farmhouse. I had the sense she was confessing.’

  ‘If she was confessing, she may have warned him we’re coming.’

  ‘We better get a move on, then.’

  The house appeared in the shadows, an opening in the hedges leading to a stone pathway. Sarah checked her GPS signal. ‘This is it,’ she said.

  With only the illumination of the moon in the clear sky they made their way towards the derelict building. There was no evident sign of occupancy, no vehicles in the driveway or light behind the windows. In the daylight Lambert imagined the area would be picturesque. The building had an impressive structure and grounds, even if the exterior had seen better days. Not that he would have considered living there; such remote solitude was not for him. He needed the hustle and bustle of city life and such isolation would be too much after a couple of days. He followed Sarah towards the front door and matched her action of taking out her expandable baton.

  If Peter Saunders had fond memories of the farmhouse, he must have been sorely disappointed when he returned. The interior was nothing more than an empty shell. Nothing remained of the original features, not even the carpets. After forcing the front door, they walked across the bare floorboards, Lambert’s torch revealing the occasional trace of faded graffiti on the walls.