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  Her parents greeted her like they hadn’t seen her in years. She hugged them both as they fussed over her, her father taking her case, her mother offering tea and food. They’d retired to Bristol, in part to be closer to her. Each time she returned to their house she experienced a stab of guilt, as if somehow she’d abandoned them.

  ‘You back for long?’ asked her father as they sat down for dinner.

  ‘A few days,’ said Sarah.

  ‘We’ll have to get to the shops tomorrow and get you something for Christmas,’ said her father, teasing.

  ‘Oh, stop it, Jeff,’ said her mother.

  ‘Look, don’t let me stop you, Dad. If you want to buy me some extra presents, be my guest.’

  ‘Not having the best of times at the moment?’ asked her mother, not bothering with any preamble.

  ‘Just finished a tough case.’

  ‘And you don’t want to talk about it, do you, Sarah,’ said her father, filling her glass with wine.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said, receiving a frown from her mother, who clearly wanted to hear more.

  The food made her drowsy and she thanked her parents and headed upstairs to the spare room. The contentment she’d experienced at dinner soon evaporated. She tried to sleep but was restless, unable to relax in the change of environment. Try as she might, her mind kept returning to the case. She pictured DS Wright, the gun wounds which had taken his life on the Holloway Road, and John Prine, lying in the shallow grave in Norfolk. She thought about Anna Saunders and her reluctance to see her husband in prison, the prison Governors Guthrie and Pierson, and the bizarre incident of the multiple girlfriends. Charles Partridge’s smug face appeared in her memory, raising her blood pressure. She tried to accept being sidelined. In her many cases as SIO she’d had to reassign personnel and made many unpopular decisions, so why did this feel so unfair?

  She glanced at her phone. She wanted to call Michael for numerous reasons – to hear his voice and get the latest details on his case and Saunders. She’d only been in Bristol for a matter of hours, and already her early nostalgia for the place was fading.

  Switching on her laptop, she loaded her case notes. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow but she couldn’t think about stopping. Despite having told Adams he was off the case, she sent an email to the DS, instructing him to check the plate of the rusted Land Rover belonging to Pierson’s Girlfriend Number Three. Partridge didn’t use the same System as her so she was unable to gather any updates about the Saunders’ case.

  It was the secrecy she hated. She slammed her laptop shut and returned to bed, sometime later falling into an uneasy sleep.

  * * *

  Lambert’s mother-in-law greeted him at home when he arrived back an hour later. ‘Nice of you to join us,’ she said, blocking his path as if he was a salesman pitching for business. She didn’t seem prepared to allow him entrance to the house.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Glenda. Do you mind if I come in? It’s freezing out here.’

  Glenda didn’t move. She kept her arm against the door frame staring at Lambert like he was a mirage.

  ‘Don’t blow this,’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t got time for this now, Glenda.’

  ‘Michael, this is important. This is your last chance with Sophie, you must realize that.’ She looked behind her to check her daughter wasn’t listening. ‘She tells me you’ve been working late all week, that your work patterns have been returning to how they were before.’

  ‘I’m working on a very big case, Glenda, what do you expect me to do?’

  ‘So I’ve read. You still need to make time for your wife.’

  Lambert’s head hung low. ‘I’m doing the best I can. I take Jane to the childminder when I can,’ he said, realizing how feeble the statement was.

  ‘She needs more, Michael. I can tell you’re falling back into the same old patterns and look where that got you.’

  ‘May I come in now?’ he said, more sternly than before.

  Glenda stepped aside. ‘Just think on it, Michael,’ she said, as he walked past.

  Lambert didn’t respond, pleased to see Jane was still up.

  ‘Daddy,’ she screamed, as he entered the kitchen. She was sitting at the kitchen table eating. Lambert spun her around, to squeals of delight.

  ‘Put her down, Michael, you’ll make her sick,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Will you be sick?’ Lambert asked Jane.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jane, laughing.

  ‘I better put you down, then.’ He placed her back on the chair and stole one of the boiled potatoes from her plate.

  ‘Daddy,’ she said, with a warning tone.

  ‘Remember, you’re making the grown-ups’ dinner tonight, Michael,’ said Sophie. She pointed to a plate of steaks on the kitchen side table. Lambert usually cooked on Christmas Eve and was about to protest about having to do so a day earlier when Glenda walked into the room, her glass brimming with gin.

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ he said. ‘How do you take yours Glenda – raw?’

  ‘Your husband is a wit, Sophie. Medium rare please.’

  ‘How do you take yours, Jane?’

  ‘Daddy, I’ve already eaten,’ said Jane, stuffing her face with the remains of her dinner.

  * * *

  While Sophie and her mother bathed and put Jane to bed, Lambert alternated between cooking dinner and scanning the house for the jewellery brochure. He managed to find it seconds before Glenda returned downstairs, shoving it into the back of his trousers as he threw the first of the steaks onto the griddle.

  ‘I’m sorry if I came on too forceful earlier,’ said Glenda, joining him by the cooker. ‘Believe it or not I want the best for you – not just for Jane and Sophie.’

  ‘It was raw you said,’ said Lambert, putting the second of the steaks on.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Glenda, smiling. ‘I know you do your best for them and you always have, but sometimes there have to be compromises.’

  While he appreciated the sentiment, she only knew a fraction of what his job entailed. The things he’d gone through and the things he’d seen. ‘We are working on it, Glenda, and I promise I’ll do my best to make it work this time.’

  ‘That’s all I ask,’ said Glenda, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Now, for heaven’s sake, don’t burn my steak.’

  The meal went well, Lambert opening the bottle of red wine left on his office desk from Tillman. ‘Why don’t you two go relax in the living room?’ he said, when the meal was finished. ‘I’ll put these away.’

  Sophie looked at her mother and shrugged her shoulders. She placed her hand on Lambert’s forehead. ‘Are you feeling OK, honey?’

  ‘Go before I change my mind.’

  Lambert switched on the digital radio and filled the dishwasher, helping himself to the dregs of the wine bottle. He’d forgotten the tranquillity of occasional bouts of domesticity. Filling the dishwasher, scrubbing the pans and cleaning the work surfaces while indie pop blared from the speakers helped take his mind off the case. Every time his mind wandered back to George Forrest or the Manor he banished the thought by finding another job to do until the kitchen was spotless.

  Sophie and her mother were watching television in the living room: a mindless Christmas quiz special. The room smelt of tinsel and pine from the Christmas tree. Michael poured some more drinks and slumped down next to Sophie. ‘I could get used to this,’ he said, sipping the small measure of brandy he had poured himself. He wasn’t used to such normality, and surprised himself further by laughing at the lame jokes on the television. ‘I must have had too much to drink if I find this funny,’ he said.

  Glenda retired not long after and Lambert’s eyelids began to droop. ‘Carry me to bed,’ he said to Sophie.

  ‘Let’s carry each other,’

  Tillman called as he began climbing the stairs, hand in hand with his wife. It lacked professionalism not to answer but he couldn’t bring himself to accept the man’s call. He placed the phone back in his pocket, convinc
ed Tillman would call back if it was important.

  The alcohol made him drowsy and he was asleep within seconds of Sophie switching the bedroom light out. His sleep was uneasy, filled with images of Waverley Manor and running German shepherd dogs. When Sophie grabbed hold of his arm seemingly minutes later, Lambert swiped it away.

  ‘Michael,’ she said, ignoring his protests.

  He turned towards her, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Can’t you hear, Michael? Someone is knocking at the door.’

  Lambert shook his head, getting his bearings. The sound, a solid thud against the wood panelling of his front door reverberating through the house. He jumped out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown and looked out of the window.

  Parked in the middle of the road, stopping traffic in both directions, were four police cars, blue lights flashing in the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lambert opened the window and peered out, searching for a familiar face amongst the silhouetted figures gathered outside his front door. He recognized one of their number and turned to look at him. He knew Chief Superintendent Tanner from his dealings with anti-corruption; a short stout man, reminiscent of Tillman save for the complete lack of hair on his scalp, Tanner headed up AC-10.

  ‘Lambert, will you get down here?’ he shouted up. ‘It’s frickin’ freezing.’

  ‘It’s the middle of the goddam night,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Now, DCI Lambert, or we’ll be coming in.’

  ‘Give me five minutes to get changed,’

  Tanner offered him a short nod. Lambert had no idea what Tanner wanted but as they’d arrived in such numbers it was likely they were going to take him in and he was loath to appear at any police station wearing only his dressing gown.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sophie, as he changed.

  ‘A misunderstanding. A bloody inconvenient one, but a misunderstanding nonetheless. I imagine it is something to do with the case. I’m going to have to go in for a bit.’

  ‘Why? Do they think you’ve done something wrong?’

  ‘It’s anti-corruption so I assume so. Don’t worry, they have nothing on me.’

  ‘Do you want me to call someone? Glenn? Or a solicitor? I can get one of my team down there straight away.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll get one of the union reps if needs be, but this is going to blow over. It’s that idiot, Tanner. He loves making a show.’

  Glenda stood on the landing wrapped in a dressing gown. ‘Is everything all right?’ she whispered, as Lambert and Sophie left the room.

  ‘Go back to sleep, Mum, it’s fine. Michael has just been called into work.’

  ‘And you must think I was born yesterday,’ said Glenda. ‘I’ve seen the flashing lights and I heard what they said about breaking in if he didn’t go downstairs.’

  ‘This doesn’t concern you, Glenda,’ said Lambert.

  Downstairs, he kissed Sophie goodbye and told her not to worry before opening the front door.

  Tanner was about to speak but Lambert interrupted him ‘May I shut the door first, sir?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Tanner, who was flanked by two AC officers Lambert recognized but whose names he couldn’t recall. He noticed the tension in their bodies, ready to confront Lambert should he choose to run. ‘You’re going to have to come with us, son,’ said Tanner.

  Lambert glanced at the three men blocking his way. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

  Tanner’s front teeth jutted out over his lower lip. ‘Let’s discuss this back at the station, shall we, or do I need to cuff you?’

  Lambert considered pressing his point. He wasn’t under arrest, but something had happened to make them come out in such force and he had little option but to do as instructed. He glanced at the officers, puzzled by the open hostility shown towards him. ‘Why would I run?’ he said.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Tanner. ‘You won’t mind if these two officers escort you to the back of my car, then?’

  One of the officers attempted to place his hand on Lambert’s shoulder. Lambert stopped and glared at the man. The officer looked at Tanner who shook his head. Taking his time, Lambert climbed into the back of the car. The two officers sat either side of him on the back seat. ‘Buckle up,’ said Tanner with a grin, sitting behind the wheel.

  ‘You going to tell me what this about now?’ said Lambert, as Tanner started the car.

  ‘Why spoil the surprise? Sit back and enjoy the view, DCI Lambert. We’ll be there before you know it.’

  Lambert’s limbs were heavy. He’d only been asleep for ninety minutes and the alcohol still lingered in his bloodstream. He leant back and closed his eyes, thinking he’d counted eight anti-corruption officers in total, but none of them had been DI Duggan.

  * * *

  They drove to Lewisham station. ‘Thought we would do this as a courtesy,’ said Tanner. ‘We could have driven you to headquarters, paraded you in front of everyone, but we’re not like that.’

  ‘I appreciate it,’ said Lambert. His tone was neutral but Tanner would have noted the sarcasm. A second officer joined them in the interview room and introduced herself as Sergeant Maria Whittaker. Tanner ran through Lambert’s rights and reiterated he wasn’t under arrest but was entitled to legal representation.

  ‘If I’m not under arrest then why did you drag me out of my house in the middle of the night?’ said Lambert.

  ‘We have some pressing questions to ask you. Are you willing to continue without legal representation at this time?’ said Tanner, purely for the benefit of the tape.

  ‘Let’s see what you want and we can go from there,’ said Lambert.

  DS Whittaker placed a folder in front of him.

  ‘Would you care to open those?’ said Tanner.

  Lambert did as instructed, doing his best not to react when he revealed the photograph inside.

  ‘You know who that is?’ said DS Whittaker, wiping a loose strand of silver-white hair from her tanned forehead.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For the tape, will you tell us who you believe this person to be?’ said Tanner.

  ‘I believe that person is Jonathan Barnes, formerly Detective Chief Inspector Jonathan Barnes of the Metropolitan Police.’ Lambert elongated each word, speaking to the two officers like they were halfwits.

  ‘You arrested Jonathan Barnes, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And because of your investigative work, Barnes was successfully prosecuted. Is that also correct?’ said Tanner.

  ‘It is very correct,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Can you describe the picture in front of you for the tape?’

  Lambert’s patience was ebbing away. ‘What the hell is this, Tanner?’ he said, turning to him. The picture was of Jonathan Barnes and had been taken in prison after he’d suffered the napalm attack. Barnes’ face was so disfigured that Lambert struggled to recognise him. ‘I’m not playing these games. It’s a picture of Jonathan Barnes, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, it is a picture of the convict Jonathan Barnes following a so-called napalm attack he suffered in prison. The attack left Barnes severely disfigured as well as causing numerous internal complications. Do you remember the period when this occurred?’ asked Tanner, clearly revelling in his job of interrogator.

  Lambert couldn’t believe he was being questioned over this case again. ‘I heard about it, yes.’

  ‘Were you not in fact questioned by this very same department at the time?’

  ‘I was in fact questioned by this very department,’ said Lambert, mimicking Tanner.

  ‘And why was that?’

  Lambert sighed. ‘Let me guess, for the tape?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘The convicted paedophile, rapist and murderer Jonathan Barnes had the temerity to accuse myself and a fellow officer of being responsible for the acid attack leading to the disfigurements in this
picture. No charges were ever brought against me and, if I am being honest, sir, I can’t believe you’re dragging me through all this again.’

  ‘And the fellow officer in question?’

  ‘Bloody hell. Detective Chief Superintendent Glenn Tillman, as you well know. This is ludicrous. Of course Barnes would accuse us of setting up the attack but that misses out a number of pertinent facts such as, one, we were never at the prison, and two, refer to number one.’

  ‘Barnes accused you of speaking to his fellow inmates. That they had acted on your instructions.’

  ‘Look, I know how you love putting police officers away so I thought you would have been happy Barnes is rotting in jail. Aren’t you being greedy trying to get me in there too?’

  ‘You’ve got me wrong, son. I don’t like putting police officers away. I like putting the corrupt away.’

  ‘Well Barnes was certainly that, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to have him attacked.’

  ‘I agree totally, that’s why I had nothing to do with it. Now, if we’re quite finished here.’

  Lambert stood up and was heading to the door when Tanner spoke. ‘Who last questioned you over this case, DCI Lambert?’

  Lambert stopped in his tracks. A thought occurred to him, explaining his being there and enduring such questions. ‘Inspector Duggan,’ he said.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Tanner.

  ‘Sir, what’s going on?’

  Tanner paused, and nodded to Whittaker. ‘The body of Inspector Duggan was found in his flat late last night,’ he said, staring hard at Lambert, assessing his response.

  ‘Whittaker,’ said Tanner.

  Whittaker produced a second file and placed it in front of Lambert. Lambert lowered his eyes and prepared for what he was about to see. He opened the file and saw an almost replica picture of the one he’d just viewed. Only this time it was Inspector Duggan’s face instead of Jonathan Barnes’. The skin had been torn from his bones, the same eye obliterated, but Lambert could tell it was Duggan.