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  ‘Over here,’ said Tillman, who was bent down by the wardrobe. He stood aside so Lambert could see the wooden box nailed to the base of the wardrobe. ‘Get my gear,’ said Tillman, pointing to the thick metal lock securing the box in place.

  Tillman forced the lock off without trouble. ‘Oh shit,’ he said, reaching inside. ‘Looks like father like son.’

  Lambert shut his eyes, for the briefest of moments lost in a haze of red swirling images. He wanted to stay there, to allow sleep to steal him from his present reality, but fought the sensation.

  Tillman placed the material he’d found on the bed. Lambert was as hardened as it was possible to be to such images from his work on the Waverley Manor case, and similar cases throughout his years on the force. Yet every time he was forced to view such material he felt tainted, as if he was somehow colluding with the sick perverts responsible.

  As Tillman surmised, Edmund Barnes, only just turned nineteen, had the same proclivity as his father. They searched through the images in silence, sickened by the sight of the children, trying to find a clue as to Edmund Barnes’ whereabouts – to where he was hiding Sophie and Jane.

  The last thought kept Lambert going. He’d convinced himself Edmund wouldn’t do anything to Sophie and Jane until his father escaped, and he had to cling on to that hope.

  They searched the house from top to bottom. There was no garden save for a few metres of weed-strewn concrete to the back of the house. Wherever Edmund was hiding it wasn’t here.

  Back upstairs they made a final check of Edmund’s room, collecting his photographs from the wooden box. The images were emblazed onto Lambert’s mind and he feared he would never be free of them. He scrolled through them in his memory. He froze on one image and instructed Tillman to tip out the pictures again. He shuffled through them, saddened at the lost souls staring back at him, until he reached the one that had jogged his memory.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing to the background of a grainy image. ‘I know where that is.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Sarah sat in the lobby of Woolwich prison desperate for some news from Michael and Tillman. Michael was doing his best but she’d seen the change in him. He was strung as tight as piano wire and she was concerned what would happen when he snapped. They’d agreed to keep it between the three of them. She’d not argued. Despite every tenet of her training and procedure telling her they needed to involve the authorities, she agreed it was impossible to know who to trust. Even involving DS Kennedy at this point would alert others. She trusted Michael, and to a lesser extent Tillman, and if they agreed this was the best plan she was inclined to agree, at least for the time being.

  Paul Guthrie’s assistant, a middle-aged woman with a dour, unreadable face, led her into the Governor’s office. ‘DCI May, this is a surprise. Please take a seat.’

  The Governor didn’t rise from his seat or offer her a hand to shake. He stayed behind his desk, arms folded. ‘Can I offer you a tea or coffee?’

  ‘Black coffee, please.’

  ‘Two black coffees, Linda.’

  Sarah recalled her previous meetings with Guthrie, his willingness to assist her and his jovial countenance in stark contrast to Pierson’s manner.

  Now he was behaving in the same alpha-male manner as his fellow prison Governor, but Sarah was not convinced. Unlike Pierson, Guthrie’s behaviour appeared out of character – like he was acting a part. Sarah had seen it in other people of authority. Talented individuals who were naturally introverted, acting out of character as if they expected that’s what others expected. Guthrie gave the impression of being in control, but his gestures were defensive. He stared at her as they waited for the coffee but his arms were folded, his legs crossed. The big desk was meant to make a statement, but to Sarah it looked like it was there to protect him.

  The Governor waited until his secretary delivered the drinks before speaking again, glancing at the door as she shut it before opening his mouth. ‘So how can I help you this time?’ he asked, appearing to burn his lip as he drank his coffee too soon.

  ‘I wanted to talk about John Prine. We haven’t spoken since his body was discovered, and I imagine it came as a shock to you and your staff. Do you have any idea why he would have helped Peter Saunders escape?’

  The Governor scowled, his look suggesting he’d already answered the same question from Partridge. ‘As I’ve told your colleagues on more than one occasion, I have no idea why he would have gone with Saunders. I can only imagine he was there under duress.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Why else would he go? Saunders killed him, so to my mind that suggests he didn’t want to be there.’

  ‘Maybe he was helping Saunders, and Saunders betrayed him.’

  Guthrie shook his head. ‘John Prine worked here for eleven years. Long before Peter Saunders was incarcerated. I struggle to believe his head was turned by a category A prisoner.’

  ‘I imagine it was a relief when he left?’

  ‘Saunders? Not really. There’s plenty more of them. Makes no difference.’

  ‘Such as Jonathan Barnes?’

  Guthrie didn’t try to hide his anger. ‘Why are you here, DCI May?’

  ‘I believe Jonathan Barnes is being moved on the twenty-ninth December?’

  ‘That is privileged information.’

  ‘Are you concerned Barnes will abscond like Saunders?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You sound convinced.’

  ‘As I said, DCI May, Peter Saunders’ escape was terrible, but it won’t happen again.’

  Sarah changed her line of questioning. ‘Jonathan Barnes was attacked in prison, was he not?’

  ‘Unfortunately these types of things occasionally happen. The type of person he was… Well, you know, he was a target.’

  ‘Was Saunders?’

  ‘They were in separate blocks, but both high risk.’

  ‘Anyone attack Saunders?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sound sure.’

  ‘I’m sure he received some threats but there were no reported incidents.’

  ‘Getting back to Jonathan Barnes. Have you had any contact with his family?’

  ‘No, why would I have?’

  ‘His wife, perhaps.’

  ‘As a rule, I tend not to speak to the inmates’ families. We have special liaison teams for that.’

  ‘I understand.’ Sarah thought about Brenda Barnes’ relationship with Stuart Pierson and wondered if it would lead to the man losing his job.

  Guthrie was holding something back. She’d felt it the first time she’d met him, and it was more obvious now. It was the way he’d said ‘duress’ earlier. ‘If there’s something you need to tell me, now would be the time.’

  Guthrie paused. ‘I really don’t know what you mean, DCI May. Now if you don’t mind…’

  Sarah remained sitting. She gave the Governor her card. ‘If you’re in trouble, I can help. No one needs to know.’

  Guthrie took the card. ‘As I said, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’

  * * *

  A car was waiting for her outside. She tried to call Lambert to warn him but the door flew open before she had time to enter the digits. ‘DCI May. A word.’ Agent Partridge stepped out of the car, holding the door open.

  Sarah scanned the surrounding area and decided running was pointless. She brushed past Partridge as she took a seat in the back of his car, the warm leather upholstery squeaking as she sat.

  ‘Care to tell me what you are doing here, DCI May?’ Partridge asked the question with a wry amusement, as if he wasn’t used to being disobeyed.

  ‘Making myself useful.’

  ‘Useful? The last time we spoke you were heading to Bristol for some well-deserved annual leave. What brings you back here?’

  ‘I had some more thoughts.’

  ‘Thoughts you didn’t care to share with us?’

  ‘It didn’t seem
significant enough to trouble you with.’

  ‘Everything is significant, DCI May. You know that. What did you want with Mr Guthrie?’

  Technically, Sarah hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d spoken to Guthrie on legitimate police business. Partridge couldn’t stop her asking questions, but he could make life difficult for her. ‘There were some questions I hadn’t asked him before. I wanted to clarify things.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Sarah matched the agent’s stare, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Yes, I got what I was looking for. How close are we to finding Peter Saunders?’ she asked, trying to change the subject.

  Partridge ignored her. ‘What was it you found out?’

  The word duress sprang to Sarah’s mind but she wouldn’t be sharing that with the agent. ‘I checked Saunders’ movements during the day of his escape. Nothing that needed reporting.’

  ‘Oh really, you feel qualified to make that decision?’

  Sarah took a deep breath, the smell of the leather and the lingering hint of Partridge’s aftershave hitting her. She glanced at Partridge’s driver who kept his head straight, gazing into the distance. ‘I’m a Detective Chief Inspector in the NCA. Of course I’m qualified to make that decision.’ She omitted ‘you patronising bastard’, but was sure he got the message.

  ‘This would have nothing to with the upcoming transfer of Jonathan Barnes, would it?’

  ‘I’ve told you my reasons for being here.’

  ‘Because if it is, I would suggest you forget it. Barnes is being transferred under our supervision.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel reassured?’ asked Sarah, provoking a glimmer of annoyance from Partridge.

  ‘I would feel reassured if I were you. The professionals are handling things now.’

  His smugness was intolerable. Sarah reached for the car door, and was stopped by Partridge placing his hand on hers.

  ‘I don’t care who you work for. Get your hand off me,’ said Sarah.

  The driver turned around, his glare focused on Sarah. She shrugged his intervention off. ‘I’m leaving this car now,’ she said, shoving Partridge’s hand away.

  Partridge didn’t try to stop her. ‘Have it your way, DCI May. But if I find you interfering once more in this case, you’ll find yourself in a similar establishment to the one you’ve just left.’

  Sarah left the side door open and walked to her car. She kept her gaze ahead and tried not to hurry despite her desire to put as much distance between herself and Partridge as possible.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  How could they have been so stupid? Where else could he have taken them? For Edmund it started with Waverley Manor and would end there.

  ‘Fuck, haven’t they concreted that place up yet?’ said Tillman.

  ‘No,’ said Lambert, recalling his recent visit to the site. ‘The entrances are under lock and key, but they can still be accessed.’ He fought the visions of Sophie and Jane imprisoned underground. The tunnels had been cleared since the investigation, the chains and torture devices recorded and locked away, but there was no undoing the atmosphere of the place. It was a prison, a torture dungeon, and the thought of his wife and child being kept there for even a second was unbearable. A chill ran through his blood, seeping into his bones. Every living minute was torturous as it meant another minute of suffering for his loved ones.

  He called Sarah, her burner going straight to answerphone. He left a coded message, hoping she would decipher their destination.

  Tillman made some calls as he drove. A legacy of when he’d led a secret department within the NCA known only as The Group, his superior occasionally called on the services of a secondary team, the full details of which were not known to Lambert. Lambert listened as Tillman arranged for his officers to cover the surrounding areas. He didn’t elaborate on the details, and stressed no one was to go anywhere near Waverley Manor without his permission. Lambert trusted him, and knew his covert team would follow his orders.

  ‘We’ll get him,’ said Tillman, as if reading Lambert’s thoughts.

  Lambert had experienced fear before, had been seconds from death on too many occasions, but nothing could have prepared him for this. He’d been in an induced coma when Chloe died, and waking to news of his daughter’s death had been unbearable. Now Sophie and Jane’s fate was in his hands, and all he could do was will the journey to end as he sat impotent and useless as a passenger. He glared at Tillman, willing him to drive faster.

  The big man saw his pained look and floored the accelerator. ‘Do you think Edmund plans to break his father out of prison?’ asked Tillman.

  Lambert presumed Tillman was trying to divert his attention. ‘Do I think Edmund killed Beckinsale, Jenkins and Duggan? Yes. Do I think he has Sophie and Jane? Yes. Do I think he masterminded the escape of Peter Saunders and is preparing to do the same for his father? No, I don’t.’

  It was good to air his thoughts. Edmund was able, had learnt or inherited some twisted skills from his father, but Lambert didn’t believe he had the capacity to spring Peter Saunders. Lambert was sure he was working alone. He’d seen him at the courthouse, and had seen his pitiful room. Edmund Barnes was a loner. And although he was sure he wanted his father back, he didn’t have the resources to get it done. That didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Someone was still pulling strings for the Manor. And with Peter Saunders free, it was not inconceivable more of the eight would follow, even if MI5 were in charge of security.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Tillman, pulling into the all too familiar lane and parking up. Memories came flooding back, none of them positive. Cutting through the woods to reach the deserted area where they’d eventually uncovered the trapdoor to the underground prison; the metallic, decaying smell of the tunnels. It wasn’t enough to concrete up the dungeon. If Lambert had his way, the whole area would be destroyed, the woodland burnt to a cinder along with the memories of all who had suffered within its perimeter.

  They pulled on their coats, Tillman retrieved a gun from a hidden compartment within the boot, and headed through the foliage to the pathway. Moving like soldiers in a war zone, they edged through the foliage in silence, attuned to every sound. Lambert dragged his arms on a set of brambles as he reached an area of clear ground. There was one last path to trek through before they reached the Manor.

  ‘You’re going to have wait here,’ he said to Tillman.

  Tillman held his gaze, for the first time in many years displaying a hint of emotion. ‘No way.’

  ‘I don’t want to take the risk, Glenn. If Edmund sees me alone he could talk. It may give me a chance, an opportunity to put him down. If you’re there he’ll think I’ve involved the police.’ Lambert shuddered as he remembered the threat on the note.

  Lambert typed a message on his burner phone and showed it to Tillman. ‘If I send this, you have my permission to come running.’ He left the message on his screen and placed the phone in his jacket pocket, heading alone into the woods before Tillman could object.

  He remained focused, banishing thoughts of Sophie and Jane. He had a job to complete and couldn’t afford emotional distractions. His mission was to find Edmund, eliminate him and end this once and for all.

  Waverley Manor existed in a place out of time. Lambert smelt the place before seeing it. It was hard to believe months ago the area was swarming with diggers and machinery, hundreds of personnel trekking through every last ounce of mud, accounting for every lost body. Nature ignored such intrusions. The holes and footprints were covered over now. He’d been here only a few days ago but already it was a different place. The branches of the trees appeared heavier, the undergrowth deeper, as if the ghosts of the manor were telling him to stay clear. Lambert edged along, keeping to the side of the path to avoid detection until he reached his destination. The place he hoped he’d never see again.

  He had no plan. Edmund Barnes had told him not to interfere. The gun was in his inside jacket. He could draw and fire in one to two seconds on a goo
d day. Would he be able to do the same now? If Barnes emerged with a screaming Jane in his arms, Sophie gagged and blindfolded, would he behave with the same dispassion he prided himself on, or would he ultimately be betrayed by emotion?

  He edged towards the entrance. Darkness covered the place as if Waverley Manor belonged in its own dimension. It sucked out the light and returned Lambert to last year and the first time he’d stepped into its depths.

  Lambert was proved right. The steel cage used to block the entry was prised open, the entrance uncovered. Lambert took a deep breath and peered into the darkness stretching on forever into the underground depths. He looked around him, waiting for Edmund to pounce. Was his family down there? The thought shook him into action. He climbed into the small opening, grabbing onto the cold metal of the ladders connected to the side and made his way down, doing his best not to hurry, until he hit the concrete floor.

  He illuminated the area with his torch, his chest tight as he sucked in the stale, cold air. In all his nightmares, he never thought he’d return to this place. The terror of the discoveries he’d uncovered last time rushed back to him. He fought the panic and claustrophobia. From this point he had two choices, left or right. Last time he’d chosen right and he made the same choice again. He was already at a disadvantage, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The Glock led the way, pointing in front of him. He gripped the handle, too tense to risk placing his finger on the trigger, and moved towards the first corner, waiting for the ambush.

  It didn’t arrive and he understood why a fraction too late.

  Adrenaline surged through his body as he stared open mouthed at the body blocking the space in front of him. It was arranged in a perverse recreation of a crucifixion, the arms and legs chained to the walls diagonally, the body caught as if mid-star jump. Lambert held his gun in front of him as if the corpse could do some harm, and retreated at the sound coming from behind him.