Dead Time Read online

  Catherine Williamson was Thomas Powell’s aunt on his mother’s side. In typical journalistic style, her picture showed her at her worst. Bleary-eyed one Christmas, her arms draped over her sister as they stood smiling in front of the family Christmas tree. After Lambert found her car, deserted in a lock-up in Lewisham, she’d admitted killing Thomas. At first she’d claimed it was an accident but she broke down in the interview and admitted she’d wanted to hurt the boy. Lambert remembered the interview clearly. That a woman would kill her sister’s child because of jealousy had dumbfounded the then naive Lambert. He’d experienced crimes of passion in his first two years on the force, and too many cold-blooded murders, but Powell’s death was something different. It was not the premeditation, but the pointlessness of the motive which always stayed with him. It turned him into a hardened cynic overnight and in hindsight it probably benefited his investigative career.

  Through the System he found an address for both Catherine Williams and Thomas Powell’s parents. He entered them into his phone and sought a feasible reason why they might be linked to Lance Jenkins’ murder.

  The team gathered in the main office and Lambert held a debrief, assigning roles to each individual detective. He explained the cold cases which might have some bearing on the Beckinsale and Jenkins murders. ‘Nothing suggests they are anything but copycat murders at this stage, but we’ll look into the old cases and examine the connections. Chief Superintendent Tillman pointed out that the two cold cases were committed by family members so we should consider this angle with the present cases. Matilda, I want you to interrogate Mrs Beckinsale further as well as Daniella Bolton. Search deeper into Beckinsale’s family history and see what you can unearth. Bickland and Gemma, you need to speak to Mr and Mrs Jenkins today and then expand your scope to the rest of the family.’

  He informed the team about his plans to talk to the family of Thomas Powell and wrapped the meeting up.

  ‘What about the Dominic Webster case?’ asked Matilda, breaking from the group.

  ‘That reminds me. Could you get the files for that and the Powell case before interviewing Jenkins? Leave them on my desk,’ said Lambert, pulling on his coat and heading out of the office.

  * * *

  An elderly lady wearing a discoloured housecoat answered the flat door. Lambert had traipsed eleven floors of staircase, the lift in the sixties-built block being under repair. The woman stared at him for the briefest of moments before she started shaking.

  ‘Mrs Powell?’ said Lambert, taking a step back lest he scare the woman.

  ‘Detective Lambert, I can’t believe it’s you.’

  Mrs Powell led him down a narrow hallway, the walls covered in a rich, flower patterned wallpaper, to an immaculate living area. Lambert gazed at the pictures of Thomas decorating the walls, forever aged seventeen. ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ said Mrs Powell. ‘Take a seat, I’ll fetch some tea.’

  Lambert complied, surprised to find a sleeping cat snuggled deep behind one of the dark cushions on the sofa. The cat looked up at him with a dismissive sneer before returning to sleep.

  It was impossible not to feel guilty. The last time he’d seen Mrs Powell was at the Old Bailey on the day her sister was sentenced for manslaughter. Mrs Powell remained calm during the sentencing, stoic as her husband watched proceedings through tear-drenched eyes. She’d hugged Lambert that day and thanked him for his work. He hadn’t known what to say at the time and wasn’t sure what he would say if faced with the same situation now.

  She returned with a tray of tea and placed it on the table in front of him. ‘Mr Powell?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Ah, you didn’t hear,’ she said, pouring the tea. ‘He never recovered, I’m afraid.’

  Lambert frowned, regretting not doing his research. ‘When?’ he said, taking the offered cup of tea.

  ‘Five years after Thomas. He did his best but he couldn’t face life without him. I found him in the bathroom, empty bottle of pills and gin by his side. He didn’t even drink,’ she said, as if the very thought was ridiculous.

  Lambert closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, trying to comprehend what the woman’s life would have been like. Widowed, bereaved of her son, and her sister in jail.

  ‘Things like that happen all the time. I have a good life here. I’m a bit lonely but I get out. I can’t complain, Detective Lambert. Now how can I help you? I don’t imagine you’re here under pleasant circumstances.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Lambert, drinking the milky tea.

  He told her about Lance Jenkins while wondering if burdening her with such knowledge was fair to the woman.

  A tear fell from her eye. She rubbed it away and smiled at him, embarrassed by the show of emotion. ‘The exact same place?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Lance was seventeen. The way… the way his body was arranged, it was identical to Thomas.’ Lambert bit his lip as he waited for Mrs Powell to respond.

  ‘Those poor folks.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs Powell?’

  ‘Catherine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s still about. Comes her once a year and begs forgiveness,’ said Mrs Powell, with such venom that Lambert looked away.

  ‘I have an address for her,’ said Lambert, showing her the address on his phone.

  ‘I believe that’s where she lives. You think she did this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I need to speak to her but wanted to talk to you first.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective Lambert. You were always such a polite young man. Tell me, do you have children?’

  Lambert hesitated, unsure how to respond. ‘I have two daughters. One passed away some time ago now,’ said Lambert, surprised to hear himself unburdening.

  Mrs Powell moved towards him, gripping his hands. ‘I can see the sadness in your eyes. How old is your other daughter?’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘You treasure her, Detective Lambert. Never forget your other daughter, but make sure you treasure your little girl.’

  * * *

  Lambert walked down the stairs of the apartment block dazed by his meeting with Mrs Powell. She’d asked him if he thought her sister had anything to do with Lance Jenkins’ murder. Catherine Williamson was in her sixties and he couldn’t believe she had the will or inclination to plan and carry out a re-enactment of a crime she’d committed twenty-five years earlier.

  Matilda called as he made his way across the icy patch of concrete separating the building from the car park. ‘Sorry, sir, you’re not going to like this,’ she said.

  At first Lambert feared a third copycat killing but what Matilda told him was only slightly more palatable. ‘Mia Helmer’s been up to her old tricks again. The Lance Jenkins case is featured in the afternoon edition of her rag.’

  ‘Can’t say it comes as a surprise, Matilda. Did she mention Beckinsale?’

  ‘Yes. Though most of the article was devoted to you.’

  ‘Marvellous. Have you managed to speak to Mrs Beckinsale yet?’

  ‘I’m at her place of work now.’

  ‘OK, keep me updated.’

  Lambert stopped at a newsagent’s on his way to Catherine Williamson’s house and picked up a copy of Helmer’s paper, putting it in his car for later study. Mrs Powell’s estranged sister lived only two miles away. He pictured her tragic yearly visits to her house, part of him pleased Williamson’s prison sentence effectively continued long after her release.

  Williamson lived in a ground-floor flat in a more modern set of council-built buildings than her sister. Her husband had divorced her following the death of her nephew but, like Nancy Beckinsale, she’d kept her ex-husband’s name. Lambert hadn’t called ahead. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to achieve by meeting Williamson again after all this time. The chance of her being involved in Jenkins’ murder was so remote. Was it simply ghoulish curiosity driving him on?

  Outside the building, Lambert pressed the button for Williamson’s fla
t. There was no response and, after trying again, Lambert pressed a number of the other buttons until he gained entry to the building. No central heating greeted him as he entered, only the smell of damp and a cold draught whistling through the hallways. He opened a fire door and moved along the corridor, a squabbling man and woman stopping their argument long enough for him to pass, until he reached Williamson’s door. ‘Mrs Williamson,’ he called, banging the door. ‘I’m from the police. This is important.’

  Lambert placed his ear to the door, the sound of shuffling feet coming from within. A minute later the door opened and an elderly woman thrust her head through a thin opening. ‘You got ID?’ said the woman.

  Williamson was the younger of the two sisters but looked twenty years older than Mrs Powell. Her pale white face was caked in poorly applied make-up and a limp cigarette drooped from her mouth.

  Lambert showed her his warrant card and waited for her to recognize his name but her glance was cursory and she handed it straight back. ‘May I come in?’ he said.

  ‘What’s this about?’ said Williamson, holding firm.

  ‘It’s about your sister.’

  This resulted in a murmur of interest. ‘I don’t have a sister.’

  ‘It’s about her son, Catherine. Don’t you not remember me, Catherine? I’m Detective Lambert.’

  Williamson looked at him for the first time, her hands shaking as she sucked on her cigarette. ‘You,’ she said, a billow of smoke drifting towards Lambert.

  ‘May I?’ said Lambert, not waiting for an invitation as he barged past the woman.

  The interior of Williamson’s house was in stark contrast to her sister’s. The floor was cluttered with various pieces of furniture piled high with old newspapers and takeaway cartons. The walls were bare save for a cheap pine-framed mirror, and a patch of damp spreading from the corner of the window to the light bulb in the centre of the ceiling. On the sideboard was a full glass of white wine, a thick smear of red lipstick on the rim of the glass.

  Williamson followed his gaze. ‘It’s six p.m. somewhere,’ she said, moving towards the glass and drinking.

  ‘How did it all work out for you, Catherine?’ said Lambert.

  ‘Very funny. I do OK.’

  ‘Was it worth it? Taking that young boy’s life? Ruining your sister and brother-in-law’s life?’

  ‘I did my time,’ said Williamson, lighting another cigarette. ‘Now what the hell do you want?’

  Lambert was glad Williamson was still doing time. Some things could never be forgiven, and if Williamson’s penance was living the rest of her life lonely and drunk in this hovel of a place, it was the least she deserved. He’d already found out everything he needed to know but told her about Lance Jenkins anyway.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, sounding genuine.

  Out of procedure he asked her for her whereabouts during the periods of the two deaths, and wasn’t surprised when she said she’d been at home.

  ‘Have you seen anything suspicious in the last few days? Anyone speak to you about what happened to Thomas?’

  She flinched at her nephew’s name, dragging hard on her cigarette. Lambert could tell she was remorseful but was unable to muster any sympathy for her. ‘Why do you go and see her?’ he asked. ‘Your sister?’

  Williamson tried to fix him with a stare but couldn’t keep her head still. Her whole body trembled and the wrinkles on her face formed into a snarl. ‘Don’t you understand, I have to go and see her? I have to beg her forgiveness every year. It’s what she wants.’

  * * *

  Lambert was pleased to reach the fresh air outside. Williamson had spat the last words at him, as if somehow she was the victim here. Lambert sat in the car staring at Williamson’s building and regretted his decision to see her. The sight of her and the recollection of the Powell case acted as a catalyst, and memories from the time flooded back to him. He’d been a different man. He’d joined the police for what he believed were the right reasons. His best friend had been brutally murdered at university and he’d signed up to make a difference. Had he achieved that? It sounded naive to him now; that young man full of passion and purpose. Yes, he’d put away more than his fair share of villains but replacements came along every single day. The world was not a better place than the day he’d joined the force, and it had been ridiculous to expect any different.

  He grabbed the newspaper from the back seat and read Mia Helmer’s hatchet piece. He almost admired the way she sprinkled the article with fear. She reported the deaths of Beckinsale and Jenkins, and questioned what a serial killer obsessed with the famous police detective Michael Lambert would do next. The piece mentioned in brief Lambert’s work in capturing members of the Manor as well as two other notorious serial killers. The word famous was not one he liked to see connected with his name, and that was the exact reason Helmer put it in her article.

  Though she did raise a salient question. What would the killer do next?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eyes followed her as Sarah May made her morning run. This was nothing new in itself – she noticed the occasional admiring glance, especially the ones lingering too long – but this was something different. She found she was running faster than normal, as if being chased by an invisible foe. Such bouts of paranoia were not uncommon. She’d been attacked while running once and it made her extra vigilant. The streets were almost desolate this time of the morning and no threat was visible, yet the feeling remained.

  She risked a glance as she rounded the corner into her road. There was no one and she continued the short distance home, increasing her pace until she was sprinting as she did at the end of every run. Hands behind her head, sucking in lungfuls of cold air, she refused to panic as she surveyed the quiet backstreet and took her house key from her jacket. Reminding herself she wasn’t being anxious, only vigilant, she entered the warmth of her house, taking one last look before closing the door behind her.

  Beneath her shower she made a mental list of the day’s tasks. The extra paranoia stemmed from the pressures involved in the Saunders’ case. Partridge and MI5 were doing their best to marginalize her involvement to the extent that her role was close to being defunct. Partridge had assumed control and was delegating actions to her. That afternoon she had a meeting with Peter Saunders’ wife while Partridge and his team were tracking a potential sighting of Saunders in Scotland. It was her first experience of working with the security service. Michael had worked in a joint task force with them in the past and warned her they were insular, but she hadn’t been prepared for the disdain they showed her. Partridge saw her as a necessary impediment to his job and would have her taken off the team in a heartbeat had he not agreed to work with the NCA on the prison escape.

  She put both her phones into her jacket as she changed and considered calling Lambert. Only when she saw him leaning on her car outside did she acknowledge her subconscious telling her there were other reasons for wanting to see him.

  ‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ she said, wondering if he’d been the reason she’d felt eyes on her during the run.

  ‘Sorry, I should have called but thought I’d pop by on the off-chance.’

  ‘You looked tired.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’ve just left a crime scene. It’s happened again, Sarah.’

  He told her about Lance Jenkins and his theory that someone was recreating the cases of his early career.

  ‘Let’s get in the car,’ said Sarah, appreciating how cold it was now she wasn’t running.

  ‘Your suspect from the Beckinsale case was released prior to this incident?’ asked Sarah once they were inside.

  ‘Fisher? He’s not responsible. Whoever did this was highly organized and professional. Jenkins wasn’t killed at the scene. He was dumped there along with his bike. His body was arranged to look identical to the murder of Thomas Powell, a case I worked early on in CID. This is not the work of one person. Anyway, we had eyes on Fisher at the time.’


  Sarah pre-empted what he was about to say. ‘You think this is the work of the Manor?’

  ‘How can I rule it out? What do we know about the Manor? We know they use outsiders to do much of their dirty work. I think maybe this is what happened this time. Have you read the papers recently?’

  Sarah had read the report by Mia Helmer the previous day. ‘Not the best reading.’

  ‘I think they’re trying to discredit me somehow. They love to fuck with people, so why not me? I was partly responsible for bringing some of them to justice.’

  He was being modest about his role in arresting the members of the Manor but she understood his thinking. ‘Can you think of anyone else who would want this to happen to you?’

  Lambert smiled. ‘I have plenty of enemies but this would appear the most logical explanation. And it could be a distraction.’

  ‘From the Saunders’ escape?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That part of the plan may have backfired,’ said Sarah. She explained about Partridge and how her role was being diminished. ‘I’m not sure if Partridge and MI5 even know about your cases.’

  ‘They’ll know. I’m only surprised they haven’t spoken to you about them yet. You won’t be seeing Partridge today if he’s in Scotland?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Mind if I tag along to your meeting with Mrs Saunders?’

  After all this time together, she couldn’t tell if he was joking. ‘Sure, that would go down well. She would recognize you from the trial.’

  ‘So? If they’re responsible for Beckinsale and Jenkins, this might put the wind up them that we are onto them.’

  ‘And if they’re not?’

  ‘No harm fucking with them at any rate.’

  She would have welcomed the company but declined. ‘You know you can’t, Michael. The orders are that you’re not involved at any point. If they find out you were snooping around in Holloway Road and that I took you along to see Mrs Saunders then my career would be on the line.’