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  ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said, before returning to her car and the long journey back home.

  * * *

  She woke at six the next morning, sighing at the sight of her running gear, wanting to stay submerged beneath the covers. But not running for over a week left her feeling bloated and lethargic, so she struggled out of bed and got dressed.

  Outside, rain pelted the pavement and wind billowed through the bare trees lining her suburban road. ‘I must be mad,’ she mouthed to herself, stepping out into the torrential weather. She did a short run around the block to warm up, getting her heartbeat to increase before stopping to stretch. As rain lashed at her face, she set the music on her earphones to one of her favourite playlists and set off running into the wind.

  She usually loved this time of day, the desolate early morning where it was mainly her and the road, but the weather and her caseload had put paid to that. Her limbs were heavy, her clothes already soaked from the downpour. She thought about the condescending way Stuart Pierson had spoken to her last night and the fact it was twenty-four hours since Peter Saunders had escaped.

  She upped the pace as she turned onto the main road, the wind now behind her, and noticed a tall slender man pretending not to check her out as she ran past him. A new track played on her iPhone, her legs responding to the faster tempo, her initial tiredness fading. It would all be damage limitation now. Whatever the Chief and Partridge said, if Saunders didn’t want to be found it was unlikely he would be, and sooner or later they would have to explain the attempted cover-up.

  One thing was for sure, she refused to be the scapegoat for their little games. She turned for home three miles later, her pace still strong. In spite of herself, her thoughts returned to Michael Lambert. His appearance last night had thrown her and she’d noted his reaction too: the dilation of his pupils, the rise and fall of his chest as they sat in the close confines of the car. She didn’t want him to leave Sophie, and didn’t believe in romantic fairy tales, but the meeting convinced her something was still unfinished between them.

  Back at her house, she stripped off her sodden clothes and spent five minutes beneath the hot jets of the shower before returning downstairs to black coffee and a mixed berry smoothie. As she was leaving for work, DS Adams called. ‘I’m surprised you’re up,’ he said, with his typical informality.

  ‘What do want, Adams?’ she said, dashing to her car as the rain began a second wave of attack on her work clothes.

  ‘We found the escape vehicle – not too far from you, actually.’

  ‘Send me the details,’ said Sarah, hanging up. The postcode Adams sent was in north London, thirty minutes away at this time of morning, yet the discovery didn’t fill her with optimism. She could only hope the car would reveal something about where Saunders planned to go next, but twenty-four hours was a long time in what was effectively a missing person’s case. She entered the postcode onto the sat-nav system on her phone and, unable to help herself, checked for a message from Michael before setting off.

  Chapter Eight

  Lambert groaned as he woke, his neck stiff from the uncomfortable position he’d fallen asleep in. Although the blackouts were less frequent, and had no further effect on him once he woke, it was a sharp reminder that the condition was beyond his control. Only Sophie, Sarah and Tillman knew about it. He couldn’t risk making it public knowledge as he feared his enemies within the force would use it as a means to oust him from his job.

  Sophie and Jane were still asleep so he showered in the guest room and was changed and out of the house before they’d stirred, arriving in West Hampstead at 7.30 a.m.

  Good news was waiting for him. Will Fisher had been arrested trying to board a ferry to Dover. Lambert was surprised the man had fled. It was a signifier of guilt and he looked forward to questioning Fisher later that day when the Kent force delivered him.

  Thirty minutes after arriving he held the morning’s debrief. With Beckinsale’s ex-wife to be interviewed at nine a.m., and with Fisher en route, the work for the day was continued research into both the victim and the suspects. Lambert instructed Matilda to interview Daniella again. ‘I want to know the extent of the little scam she and Fisher had going. Let’s find out the names of her lovers, current and past. Who knows, if Fisher is responsible this might not be the first time he’s killed someone.’

  Matilda brought him over a coffee once the meeting was wrapped up. ‘You need me for the ex-wife interview?’ she asked. Her red hair hung loose today, and she wiped away a loose strand revealing the mottled texture of her skin.

  ‘Yes, you should sit in. It’s Fisher I’m most interested in. Let me know as soon as he arrives.’

  Matilda hovered and Lambert stopped what he was doing and looked at her. ‘What is it?’ he asked, softly. He considered the young woman a friend as well as a colleague. This occasionally put him in a difficult position, a situation complicated by her relationship with Tillman.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said.

  Lambert held her gaze. ‘OK, you know where I am,’ he said, drinking his coffee and turning back to his laptop. The temperature in the office matched outdoors, the sole radiator in his office stone cold. ‘Bickland, let’s see if we can get some goddam heat in here,’ he shouted into the main office.

  Despite the positive start to the day, Lambert remained distracted by the Peter Saunders’ escape. He kept glancing at his mobile, wanting to call Sarah but worried doing so would result in an official record of his interference in the case. Sarah was an exceptional officer, and if he could have delegated the investigation into Saunders’ escape to anyone it would have been to her. Still, the thought of Saunders loose in the world filled him with a mixture of anger and despair which he struggled to get past.

  ‘Nancy Beckinsale is here,’ said Matilda, tearing him from his reverie.

  Lambert blinked and looked up from his screen. ‘She kept her married name?’ he asked.

  ‘Apparently so. We’ve put her in Room Four. Bickland is with her at the moment. I should warn you, she’s broken down a couple of times already.’

  Lambert sighed. ‘Better get it over with, then.’

  Nancy Beckinsale stood as Lambert entered Room Four. She was a tall, statuesque woman, not much smaller than Lambert. The thin coating of make-up on her face was smudged, a black ring of mascara around both her eyes. Her handshake was firm and she introduced herself with confidence. ‘Nancy Beckinsale. Please excuse the state of me.’

  ‘Not at all. Please take a seat. Are you OK for something to drink?’ said Lambert.

  Nancy gripped the mug of coffee in front of her and smiled.

  ‘I appreciate you coming to see us. I realize this is one hell of a shock.’

  Nancy went to answer but her words were lost in her throat. She took a sip of the coffee and composed himself. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ she said, eventually.

  Lambert studied the grief on the woman’s face, searching for a suggestion of fakery. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Nancy… May I call you Nancy?’

  She nodded.

  ‘How long have you been separated from Alistair?’

  ‘About two years now.’

  ‘You still keep your married name?’ He kept his tone light, fearing either a rebuke or a fresh bout of tears.

  ‘For work reasons. We were married for twenty-three years. It would cause confusion if I reverted to my maiden name.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lambert. ‘Were you still in contact?’

  ‘Yes, I saw Alistair every week.’

  ‘Every week?’

  ‘Yes, we would meet for lunch at least once a week. Our split was amicable, we parted on good terms.’

  ‘Again, I don’t want to get too personal, but it may help us to know why you decided to get a divorce.’

  Nancy sniffed. Producing a handkerchief from an expensive-looking handbag, she blew her noise with considerable force. ‘Excuse me. Our daughter left for university four years ago. She n
ow works in Edinburgh. Her absence shifted something in our relationship. We decided to have a trial separation. I’d thought… hoped, it was some form of midlife crisis on Alistair’s part, but soon the trial separation was a permanent thing.’

  Lambert leant forward. He was keen to keep Nancy onside, and didn’t wish to cause her any more grief at this stage, but there was one question he had to ask her. ‘Did you know about Daniella Bolton?’

  The mention of Daniella’s name provoked a strong response. Nancy appeared to straighten up in her seat as if every muscle in her body tensed at the same time. ‘I knew of her,’ she said. ‘I knew it was a midlife crisis when I found out about her. He didn’t like to talk about her much but I could tell she was a money grabber. You only need to look at the age difference.’

  Lambert nodded supportively. ‘Did Alistair ever suggest he was scared of Daniella?’

  ‘Of course not. She was little more than a girl. Why? You don’t think she did this, do you?’

  ‘We’re simply trying to get a clearer picture at this stage.’

  ‘You think he was murdered though, don’t you?’ Nancy scowled at him, and he saw beneath her grief she was strong and determined. It would have taken considerable strength to deal with the separation without such fortitude.

  ‘Our investigations are still ongoing at this point, though we are treating his death as suspicious.’

  Nancy’s demeanour changed once more, the features of her face contorting in suppressed rage. ‘I knew she was no good.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Alistair? Anyone who held a grudge? Someone connected to you, perhaps?’

  ‘To me?’ said Nancy, full of scorn.

  ‘I’m sorry to pry, but I have to ask, is there anyone else in your life?’

  ‘There’s been no one since Alistair,’ said Nancy, her face softening once more. ‘I honestly thought he would come back to me one day, once he’d got all this stupid stuff out of his system. I guess I’ll never know now.’

  Chapter Nine

  Lambert was disappointed when he came face-to-face with Will Fisher. He’d studied his mug shot and pictures of the man he’d found on social media and wondered if the meeting would rekindle a memory. He was slighter than Lambert had anticipated – almost skeletal. His head was freshly shaven, a line of stubble growth pitted across his scalp. He looked malnourished, sick even, his fingers yellowed from heavy smoking. He drummed them nervously on the table, glancing occasionally at the duty solicitor for support as Lambert’s eyes bored into him. Fisher had already made an impression, spitting in the face of the duty sergeant when being processed. ‘Tell me again, Mr Fisher, where were you on the morning of Alistair Beckinsale’s death?’

  ‘I told you I was at home.’

  ‘At home watching television?’ said Lambert, looking at his notes.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fisher, glancing again at his solicitor, who kept her eyes focused on the officers in the room.

  ‘But you can’t remember what you were watching?’

  ‘It was on for background noise, I was tired.’

  ‘Tired from what? You don’t appear to have worked since you left prison.’

  ‘There’s no law against it,’ said Fisher. He was smiling, but Lambert saw the hardness in his eyes.

  ‘So tell me again about the little scam you have going with your girlfriend.’

  ‘It is not a scam I’ve told you.’

  ‘No, that’s right, it’s not a scam it’s a service. I believe that’s what you called it.’

  ‘Of sorts,’ said Fisher, his words slow and laced with aggression.

  ‘Did Mr Beckinsale realize he was receiving a service?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Did he know he was one of many? Did he know Daniella was only seeing him because of the money he lavished on her?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘I think it’s exactly like that,’ continued Lambert. Fisher cowered back in his seat as Lambert placed his arms on the desk separating them. ‘You’ve got quite the temper, haven’t you, Mr Fisher? Caused quite a scene downstairs with our duty sergeant.’

  ‘He provoked me.’

  ‘Provoked you by asking your name?’

  Fisher shrugged, remained glued to the back of his chair.

  ‘Let’s see if you provoked him enough for him to press charges against you.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Fisher.

  ‘You spat in a man’s face, but that’s neither here nor there. You’ve obviously got a temper. That’s why you went to prison. Is that what happened with Mr Beckinsale? Did it get too much for you? Seeing Daniella with all these men? When I talked to her she sounded quite devastated by Mr Beckinsale’s death, as if she’d sweetened to him. Was that the case, Will? Was she going to leave you for him?’

  Fisher crossed his legs and turned to the side. ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ he murmured.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ repeated Lambert. ‘You make a fine point there – why would she leave you? You with your temper and your unemployment. Why would she leave you for a sweet, caring, wealthy man?’

  The last question provoked the response Lambert was waiting for. Fisher leant forward, placing both hands on the desk. ‘She wasn’t going to leave me, she fucking hated him. She hates all of them.’

  ‘Yet you still let her go to them, don’t you? All those men. How can you live with yourself?’

  Fisher’s face reddened, a thick blue line standing out on the left side of his neck. ‘We needed the money,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘What? Planning a getaway, were you? A holiday in the South of France, perhaps?’

  The question disarmed Fisher, whose look of anger was replaced by confusion. ‘What you on about?’

  ‘That would explain why you were in Dover, wouldn’t it, Will? Trying to catch a ferry to mainland Europe?’

  ‘Oh, I see, very funny.’

  ‘Makes sense to me, go round to Alistair Beckinsale’s house wanting to confront him, full of jealousy and rage, find him in the bath and take your opportunity.’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ said Fisher.

  ‘Then why the hell did you leave? Why the hell did you try to flee the country?’

  ‘Oh, come off it, look at my record. It was obvious you were going to pin this on me. As soon as Daniella told me I knew I had to get out of here. And I’ve been proven right, haven’t I? You’re going to try and fit me up for this.’

  Lambert pretended to be wounded by the remark. ‘No one is going to fit you up. But look at it from our point of view. You’re a GBH convict, you’re effectively a pimp for your girlfriend, and one of her clients ends up dead.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Fisher.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not good enough.’ Lambert sat back, pretended to play with his notes. Neither Fisher or his solicitor knew about the card found at the crime scene and Lambert was loath to tell them. At this point it could provide a way for the solicitor to get her client out of custody. If Fisher had left the card there, he wanted to hear it directly from the man. ‘You know who I am, don’t you, Mr Fisher?’

  The same look of confusion swept over the suspect’s face, his eyes wide and mouth agape. ‘You’re the detective on this case,’ said Fisher.

  ‘But you know who I am, specifically?’

  ‘Can I ask what this is about, DCI Lambert?’ said the solicitor, speaking for the first time since the interview started.

  ‘I’m suggesting your client already knows who I am.’

  ‘Well we all know who you are,’ said the solicitor.

  ‘Do you have any prior knowledge of me, Mr Fisher?’ said Lambert, ignoring the solicitor’s comments.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ said Fisher.

  ‘I mean, have you seen me before?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Fisher shaking his head. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  Lam
bert suspended the interview and returned to the incident room with Matilda. ‘If he knows me he is doing an incredible job of hiding it,’ he said to Matilda.

  ‘Maybe someone gave him the note to plant at the scene to mess with your head?’

  ‘No, doesn’t make sense,’ said Lambert. ‘If Fisher killed Beckinsale then it was more than likely an act of passion. He would have gone to the flat to give him a beating and things would have got out of hand. I’d be surprised if even he was stupid enough to go there with murder on his mind. It seems inconceivable he would have an accomplice. Prison has taken a toll on him – you see the way he cowers?’

  ‘You don’t think it was him?’

  ‘Not unless I can explain why he would write my name on a card and leave it at the scene. Get on to forensics again, see if we can find a match for Fisher’s prints or DNA. And have another chat with Nancy Beckinsale,’ said Lambert, recalling an old case he’d worked on.

  ‘Nancy? Why?’

  ‘Let’s find out where she was at the time of the ex-husband’s death, see if she had any keys for his house. They met once a week so it’s a possibility. It wouldn’t explain my name being on a note, but we’re grasping at straws as it is.’

  Lambert watched the CCTV images from the morning of Beckinsale’s death. The shadowy figure could be Will Fisher. The body types matched, and the figure moved with an awkwardness reminiscent of the man they had in custody.

  Lambert recalled the electrocution case he’d worked on as a probationary officer during his first year. A man called Dominic Webster was found electrocuted in his bath, a hairdryer having fallen into the water. Lambert had attended the scene with his training officer. Initially, Webster’s death hadn’t been treated as suspicious. His body was found by his wife and daughter, who had appeared bereft.

  However, Lambert hadn’t been satisfied with the wife’s testimony. A quick search revealed she had accused her husband of assault on more than one occasion. It was a pitiful story of neglect by social services. Eventually Mrs Webster confessed. Her husband’s attentions had recently wandered to his daughter and, fearing for the girl, and with no support, she took things into her own hands.