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  Lambert’s eyes began to droop and he lay on the small bed in the office, and considered if Forrest could be a member of the Manor. Every thought he’d ever had about the Manor played in his head and he feared he was reaching for answers that were not there. Forrest didn’t fit the profile of the other members of the Manor. He’d been a primary school teacher and now made an average income in his new role. As for Alistair Beckinsale, it couldn’t be denied something happened to him as a child but the only real connection he appeared to have to the Manor was the proximity of his family home to Waverley Manor.

  As he fell asleep, Lambert juggled conflicting thoughts. First that his obsession with the Manor, and the disappearance of Peter Saunders, had distracted him from the true nature of the investigation into the deaths of Lance Jenkins and Alistair Beckinsale. And second, this was exactly what the Manor wanted him to think.

  * * *

  George Forrest worked as an IT consultant in Euston and commuted in every day from Bushey in Hertfordshire. It was Sunday and Lambert could only hope the man was at home. He didn’t want to call ahead, and the journey was relatively short from headquarters. He picked up Matilda from her flat. Lambert never asked, and was never told, about Matilda’s ongoing relationship with Tillman. It was best for everyone that way, but waiting for her in the car he was unable to resist searching for a sign that Glenn Tillman had stayed the night.

  Matilda skipped down the steps outside her apartment building, her red hair billowing behind her. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said, collapsing in the passenger seat.

  Lambert ignored her characteristic dishevelled appearance and set off for Hertfordshire. Banks of snow covered the pavements as waves of sleet and freezing rain fell from the sky. There was little sign of the festive season as they traversed the grey roads and it was hard to conceive Christmas was only two days away. ‘What do you have planned for Christmas?’ he asked Matilda, realizing he hadn’t considered time off for his team.

  ‘You tell me, sir. My family live up north so I don’t think I’ll get to see them.’

  She sounded resigned rather than hopeful and Lambert wondered if she planned to spend time with Tillman over the Christmas period. Unless something spectacular unfolded in the next twenty-four hours, he decided he would let the team go home early on Christmas Eve and to return on the twenty-seventh. Nothing much would be achieved in the interim and he would rather have the team rested and focused.

  The sleet intensified as they reached the outskirts of Bushey, where Forrest lived in a terraced house. Lambert was surprised by the green and open space surrounding Forrest’s home.

  ‘The IT business obviously pays better than teaching,’ he said, as Matilda opened the wrought-iron gate leading to Forrest’s front door. Lambert peered through the front windows as Matilda knocked on the door. The living room was sparse and well presented. A minimalist Christmas tree stood in one corner, decorated in alternative lines of purple and silver tinsel. A maroon chesterfield sofa faced a fifty-inch television hanging from the uncovered brickwork of the wall.

  ‘Sir,’ said Matilda.

  Lambert turned back and saw a man moving towards the gate. Dressed in running gear, he was wearing earphones and had yet to notice them. The figure matched the photo in Forrest’s file. Six feet one, grey hair now accompanied by a matching beard, Forrest stooped as he opened the gate, pulling his earphones off as he caught Lambert’s eye.

  Forrest tensed, his back straightening as he glanced from Lambert to Matilda and back again. ‘Mr George Forrest?’ said Lambert.

  Forrest glanced at them both again, assessing the threat, before closing the iron gate and running away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Matilda acted first, Lambert impressed with her agility as she used her arms to spring over the gate. She called Forrest’s name as she ran after him across the road to the local park, informing him she was from the police.

  Following Matilda, Lambert scanned the park, searching for an exit, and glanced back to see a German shepherd had appeared and was joining in the chase. Lambert laughed at the absurdity as the dog ran between Lambert and Forrest, trotting next to Matilda at times, as if he was running in a pack. A teenage boy shouted frantically at the dog, who bounced from one runner to the next, tail wagging at the game.

  The dog affected Forrest more than Matilda. He stumbled as the dog caught up with him again, losing his stride until Matilda was on him. Then Forrest stopped running and bent over, leaning on his knees as he caught the breath duly knocked out of him by Matilda who had charged into him.

  Lambert caught up and watched as Matilda cuffed the man. ‘I would have kept up but I’m wearing these,’ he said to Matilda, pointing at his shoes, as the dog danced around them barking.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Matilda, dragging Forrest to his feet.

  ‘DCI Lambert. This is my colleague, DS Kennedy. You are George Forrest, I presume?’

  Forrest was still out of breath. Patches of red stained the pale skin of his cheeks and neck. ‘What is this?’ he muttered, not meeting either officer’s gaze.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us, Mr Forrest?’

  ‘Am I under arrest? You haven’t read me my rights.’

  The teenager appeared carrying the dog’s leash. ‘Sorry,’ he said, grabbing the dog by its collar and clicking the leash into place, while trying not to look at the cuffs holding Forrest in place.

  ‘Police, get going. Now where were we?’ said Lambert, as the boy led the dog away. ‘Oh yes, your rights. It’s up to you, Mr Forrest. We can either go to your house and discuss why you decided to run from two police officers, or we can take you in and charge you. What would you rather?’

  ‘Can I see your ID?’ asked Forrest, his voice faltering.

  ‘You think we’re lying?’ said Lambert.

  ‘No. It’s just…’ Forrest stammered, and shrugged his shoulders.

  Lambert took out his warrant card and held it in front of Forrest. ‘OK?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They escorted him across the park in cuffs to his house. ‘Keys?’ asked Matilda, as they reached the front door.

  ‘Right-hand jacket pocket.’

  Lambert retrieved the keys and opened the door, dragging Forrest through to the living room with the Christmas tree. ‘Sit,’ he said, pushing Forrest onto the Chesterfield sofa.

  ‘These are hurting,’ said Forrest, looking at the cuffs.

  ‘When I’m convinced you won’t run again, I may take them off. Now tell me, why the hell did you run like that?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure who you were.’

  ‘Who were you expecting?’

  Forrest looked sheepish. He failed to meet Lambert’s gaze, his eyes turned towards the ground. ‘No one,’ he murmured. Lambert edged nearer as Matilda began searching the house. The fear and confusion was evident in Forrest. Sweat dripped down his blotchy skin, catching in his beard.

  ‘You used to be a teacher, didn’t you?’ said Lambert. He’d crouched down on his haunches so he was close to eye level with the man.

  ‘Yes, I used to,’ said Forrest still staring at his shoes.

  ‘Look at me, George,’ said Lambert reaching towards Forrest and thrusting his chin upwards. ‘You were at St Mary’s, is that correct?’

  Forrest tried to nod, his head held in place by Lambert’s firm grip.

  ‘It didn’t end well for you there, did it?’ Lambert let go of the man and sat in the single armchair opposite. ‘Why did you leave St Mary’s, George?’

  Forrest’s head began to fall again. ‘Look at me,’ insisted Lambert, raising his voice. ‘Why did you leave St Mary’s?’

  ‘I left my job, nothing more than that. Now, will you release these cuffs? They’re digging into my skin.’

  Lambert ignored the protests. ‘You were asked to leave, George, we both know that, let’s not waste each other’s time.’

  Forrest’s face fell into a dismissive snarl. ‘It was a misunderstanding… Parents are like that now
adays, you run the risk every day you go to school.’

  ‘But there were complaints. Inappropriate behaviour.’

  ‘I wasn’t inappropriate,’ said Forrest.

  ‘But you were asked to leave?’

  ‘It was thought best, but I didn’t lose my teacher status,’ he said proudly. ‘I did a bit of temping before moving into IT and there was no problem whatsoever.’

  ‘You learn from your mistakes, George, is that you’re telling me?’

  ‘No, not at all. As I said the complaints at St Mary’s were not upheld and there was a good reason for that. I didn’t do anything wrong.’

  Lambert had heard the same phrase from too many suspects in the past to take it seriously from the man in front of him.

  ‘Why did you run, then?’

  Forrest tried to shrug, his movement restricted by the handcuffs. ‘I didn’t know who you were…’ he repeated. ‘You were looking in my front window. I thought you might be burglars.’

  ‘It’s broad daylight, George. My colleague was knocking on your door, there were people walking along the street, there’s no way you thought we were burglars. You were spooked by something. Either you knew we were police or you were fearful of something else.’

  Forrest turned his gaze to his feet as Matilda appeared by the living room door. She beckoned Lambert over, a newspaper in her hand. She’d opened it to a report about Lance Jenkins. The paper was not Mia Helmer’s and there was no mention of Lambert.

  Lambert threw the newspaper at Forrest. ‘You knew Lance Jenkins, George, didn’t you?’

  Forrest closed his eyes as if doing so could rescue him from the situation. Lambert was getting fed up with his lack of response and grabbed the man by his tracksuit top, shoving him back into the sofa. Forrest grimaced and complained again about the handcuffs. ‘Did you used to teach Lance Jenkins?’ asked Lambert, inches from Forrest’s face.

  ‘Yes, so what? He was a pupil and I’d read about him in the paper, that’s why I kept it. I was sorry to hear about what happened to him.’

  Lambert kept his pressure on the man’s chest. ‘You were sorry to hear he’d been brutally murdered?’

  Forrest turned his face away, trying to distance himself from Lambert.

  ‘What are you into, George? What will we find in this house if we search through it?’

  ‘Let me go…’ pleaded Forrest, shrinking into the leather of the sofa.

  Lambert pushed him back and released his grip. ‘Who are you expecting, George?’ he repeated.

  ‘No one, I told you,’ said Forrest, sounding uncertain.

  Lambert left the man on the sofa and went into the hallway with Matilda.

  ‘Shall we take him in?’ she whispered.

  Lambert shook his head. He wasn’t finished with Forrest yet. He’d learnt from Tillman that sometimes lines had to be crossed. He would never go as far as his boss but sometimes procedure was too restrictive. Whether the Manor were involved or not, Lambert had two deaths connected to him and if he didn’t get a handle on things soon another would follow.

  Forrest rocked on the sofa, every few seconds grimacing as if remembering where he was. Lambert gave him a couple more minutes before walking behind the sofa. He grabbed Forrest’s handcuffs, tightening them so they pinched the man’s skin, the metal rubbing against the bone of his wrists.

  ‘This can go two ways, George,’ he whispered in the man’s ear. ‘Personally, I don’t think this has anything to do with you. You’re caught up in something beyond your control. We don’t have to make it official, we can even offer protection if you think that’s what you need. But let me tell you this, George, if we bring you in, which is the second option, we will not rest until we discover everything about you. This house will be stripped and searched to the smallest detail. We will check your computer, your social media records, we will speak to your employers, we will find what we are looking for. But it doesn’t have to go that way. You tell me why you are running, who you are scared of, and that never needs to happen.’

  Lambert exerted more pressure on the man’s wrists. He fought the guilt, convinced Forrest was hiding something. Matilda watched on. He couldn’t tell if she disapproved but she’d yet to object so he turned up the pressure, forcing a yelp of discomfort from Forrest.

  ‘I don’t know who they are,’ said Forrest between sobs. ‘I hadn’t heard from them in years and I thought they’d forgotten about me.’

  Lambert released the man and moved to the other side of the sofa so he could face him. ‘Tell me, George,’ he insisted.

  ‘When I saw what had happened to Lance, I thought they might be coming for me next. That’s why I ran.’

  ‘Who are “they”, George?’

  Forrest looked up in him with a hint of defiance. ‘This isn’t on the record?’

  Lambert shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘Just tell us, George.’

  Forrest was still crying. ‘I used to be into things I shouldn’t have. I used to go to some groups and met with like-minded individuals.’

  Lambert closed his eyes, nauseous at the thoughts Forrest’s words conjured in his mind.

  ‘I’m not going to incriminate myself,’ said Forrest.

  ‘Just go on,’ said Lambert.

  ‘I got friendly with a couple of guys. They were nice at first but then…’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘They began to threaten me.’

  ‘Threaten you how?’

  ‘Physically, mainly. They were big guys and I’m not into the violent stuff. They told me I’d be safe if I helped them.’

  A wave of adrenaline hit Lambert, his hands shaking. ‘Help them with what, George?’

  ‘They were threatening me,’ insisted Forrest. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, I feared for my life.’

  ‘What did they ask you to do?’ said Lambert.

  ‘They were looking for recommendations.’

  Lambert glanced at Matilda who appeared poised to attack.

  ‘To be clear, this was when you were teaching at the school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort of recommendations, George?’

  Tears flowed from the man now, giving him the countenance of a puffy-skinned child. ‘St Mary’s was a poor school in a deprived area. They wanted to know about the children in my class, the boys especially.’

  A wave of rage came close to consuming Lambert at these words. He gripped the leather armchair, when all he wanted to do was rain blows down on the man sitting opposite him.

  ‘What did they want, specifically?’

  Forrest looked up at him and what Lambert saw in his face went beyond defiance, it was as if the man had resigned himself to his fate and was at last showing his true colours.

  ‘They wanted to know which boys wouldn’t be missed.’

  ‘And you helped them?’ said Lambert, under his breath.

  ‘I told them all about Lance Jenkins,’ said Forrest, with a smile.

  Lambert stood and smashed his elbow into the side of the man’s head. He was about to strike him again when Matilda grabbed his arm.

  ‘I won’t repeat any of this,’ said Forrest, blood drooling from his mouth.

  ‘You won’t have to, you sick fuck,’ said Matilda, showing him her phone. ‘I taped the whole thing.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sarah May stopped the young waiter and asked for another coffee. Barely a teenager, his trousers appeared as if they were painted onto his thin legs; they only reached his lower shins, below which he didn’t appear to be wearing socks. I must be getting old, she thought to herself, considering how ludicrous she thought the boy appeared. He returned a few minutes later and placed a piping hot Americano onto the table in front of her. He smiled, a line of acne spots appearing on his brow.

  She let the coffee cool, and returned her gaze to outside the window. She was in St Albans, her eyes fixed on the restaurant opposite and more specifically to the ma
n within.

  After leaving the John Prine murder site, she’d spent a fruitless day searching the ports of Norfolk. She interviewed the local residents but due to the season and treacherous weather there’d been very little boating activity. She’d tried to check in with Partridge, who’d ignored her calls, so she’d returned to headquarters.

  Her team allocation had dwindled to just her and Adams, everything else being taken over by MI5. Together they’d worked through everything, even Adams coming to the realization they’d been marginalized. In the end she’d told him to work on something else while she worked through the few leads left to her.

  She checked through the files of DS Wright, the officer killed at Holloway Road, and read the brief reports offered by Partridge’s team. From Woolwich prison, she drove the route taken by the team via Holloway Road. It wasn’t a logical route, but that was beside the point. The route was purposely random, chosen to avoid predictability. Whatever way she looked at it, she always reached the same conclusion. Someone had tipped off those responsible for attacking the van.

  This was the reason for her sitting in the café now, staring out at the occupant of the restaurant. The list of people who knew of the transfer was limited and centred mainly on the staff of the two prisons, Woolwich and Luton. AC-10 were investigating the armed response unit who’d assigned DS Wright, so that left her with the prison staff and specifically the two governors, Guthrie and Pierson.

  Pierson was the less experienced of the two. He’d only been at Luton for five years as opposed to the decade plus Guthrie had been at Woolwich. Furthermore, his defensive behaviour when they’d met had raised her suspicions, and when she looked further into his files her concerns increased.

  It was probably a coincidence – there were only a limited number of prisons containing category A prisoners in the UK – but all eight of the men prosecuted for the events at Waverley Manor had done time at Pierson’s prison, including Peter Saunders, who had originally been incarcerated there, and Jonathan Barnes.