Dead Eyed. Matt Brolly

the door open.

      Apart from a giant wooden crucifix hanging from the far wall, little else suggested the interior was that of a church. It was more like a small dance studio. Stacks of plastic chairs and folded tables surrounded a polished wooden floor. Dull brown walls propped up the low ceiling.

      ‘Up there,’ said the cleaner, pointing to a panelled door which led to a flight of stairs.

      Lambert heard talking as he moved up the dark staircase. One male, one female voice. He reached the office door and knocked. The voices stopped and the door was opened by a smiling woman, wearing a long-sleeved dress, patterned with large garish flowers, ‘Mr Lambert by any chance?’ she said, her face twitching.

      Sandra Vernon had obviously called ahead. He kept his tone light. ‘Yes, you have me at a disadvantage, Miss…’

      The woman kept the painted smile on her face but didn’t invite him to enter.

      ‘May I speak to Neil Landsdale?’ asked Lambert, when she didn’t answer.

      ‘I’m afraid he’s awfully busy at the moment,’ said the woman, her light voice lined with the trace of a West Country accent. ‘Would it be possible to come back later?’

      Lambert stiffened. ‘Not really, I’m afraid. I’m only in Bristol for the day. It will only take a few minutes of his time.’ Lambert pictured the minister sitting at a desk behind the door. He had no idea why the man was avoiding him, but one thing was clear, he would not be leaving without first speaking to the minister.

      ‘Please wait here,’ said the woman, shutting the door behind her.

      Lambert placed his ear to the door, but couldn’t hear the muffled conversation. He stepped back as the door opened.

      ‘Mr Landsdale will see you now,’ said the woman.

      Two chrome-framed desks sat side by side in the office, each with an old box-style computer monitor on them. A grey-haired man stood in front of one of the desks. His hair fell to his shoulder, a week’s growth of stubble protruding from his face. His smile was as prominent and false as his colleague’s. ‘Mr Lambert, pleased to meet you. I am the minister of our humble little church. You can call me Neil.’

      Lambert accepted the weak handshake. ‘Thank you, Neil.’

      ‘Please sit, how may I help?’

      ‘As I am sure Miss Vernon has informed you, I was Terrence’s friend at University. I’d come to pay my respect to Miss Vernon. Whilst here, I thought I’d see the church Terrence was so fond of.’

      ‘That he was, Mr Lambert. Terrence was an active parishioner, ever since he joined our congregation when he was at University. He will be sorely missed.’

      ‘You’ve been minister all that time?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Landsdale, holding his hands in front of him, his fingers interlocked. ‘It is my church.’

      ‘So you know Terrence’s father?’

      ‘I’m afraid not. Sandra and Terrence’s father had divorced some time before they moved here.’

      ‘Did Terrence ever speak of him?’

      ‘With all due respect, what business is it of yours? I thought you came to pay your respects.’ The smile was still there, but the humour had disappeared from the minister’s eyes.

      ‘I have, and I wanted to pay my respects to both parents,’ said Lambert, his voice rising, his patience fading.

      Landsdale understood. He unlinked his fingers and sat back in his chair, as if trying to escape Lambert’s gaze. ‘Look, there’s not much I can tell you. Terrence’s parents were parishioners of our sister church in Neath, when Terrence was a child. The church had a different approach then. From what I heard, there was a bit of a nasty business when they separated. Terrence never mentioned him.’

      ‘Do you know where Mr Haydon is now?’ It would only take a minute to find the father’s address on The System, but Lambert wanted to hear the address from Landsdale. He tapped his knuckles on the minister’s desk, and waited.

      ‘Now how would I know that, Mr Lambert? Perhaps you should ask the police.’

      Lambert continued tapping the desk, despite the threat. He inched closer to Landsdale who shifted in his chair, looking everywhere but back at him. ‘Okay. Thank you for your time.’ Lambert stepped back from the desk, Landsdale letting out a sigh. ‘Before I go, do you ever use incense during your services?’

      Landsdale was on his feet, mirroring Lambert. A smile still stuck on his face. ‘Bit Old Testament for us. Let me show you out, Mr Lambert.’

      Lambert ordered a taxi back to the city centre and waited outside the church for it to arrive. On the journey back, he replayed the meeting with Terrence’s mother. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but what he recalled most now was the coldness of her house. The sparse religious decorations, the hostility from the small bespectacled woman. Lambert hadn’t sensed much love for her son from Sandra Vernon, only the bitterness and hatred she felt towards her ex-husband. Lambert tried to picture what it must have been like for Terrence to be raised by such a woman and found himself feeling a bit sorry for Terrence’s father even though he had never met the man.

      Landsdale was less straight forward. He gave the outward impression of being approachable and helpful, but he had a touch of steel about him. He’d refused to be budged on Haydon’s father, even though Lambert was certain Landsdale knew where the man was. Something was going on with Sandra Vernon and Landsdale. They were hiding something whether it was relevant to Terrence Haydon’s death or not. Lambert was lifted by the thought. In his eyes, secrets were a sign of progress.

      Back in the town centre, he checked into the hotel at the bottom of Park Street, ordering a room for Klatzky. He sent Klatzky a text instructing him to pick up the room card from reception. He logged onto The System and checked HOLMES for updates. He was mildly surprised to see his name mentioned. May had reported meeting him for lunch, and that she had warned him not to start his own investigation. She had posted a picture of him as well as one of Klatzky. No mention of their meeting tonight had been entered.

      He read through the details of the previous Souljacker victims, starting way back with Clive Hale. May’s team had noted the transition in style of the killer from the first hurried job on Hale. How from Graham Jackett onwards, the killer had been much more meticulous from the eye removal to immaculate inscriptions carved onto his victim’s torsos. May had ordered a closer look at all the previous victims which made sense to Lambert. He was particularly interested in the connection between six of the victims who had all been members of a church of various denominations. Billy Nolan hadn’t attended church at any time during University but maybe there was some link from the past which had escaped the initial investigative team. Reading further, he realised that May would likely find out. She was due to meet the SIO on eight of the last ten Souljacker killings, Chief Superintendent Julian Hastings, tomorrow morning.

      It didn’t take long to find an address for Terrence’s estranged father. Roger Haydon lived in Weston-super-Mare, a small seaside town twenty miles from Bristol. Roger Haydon had been on housing and unemployment benefit for most of his life. One of May’s team, DS Jack Bradbury, had questioned the man. Haydon had claimed not to have seen Terrence since he was a child.

      Lambert ordered a late lunch from room service and called Tillman.

      ‘You’re not working for me, so you don’t need to call in and report,’ said Tillman.

      ‘I had an interesting chat with the DI on this case, Sarah May,’ said Lambert, ignoring him.

      ‘And I should be interested because?’

      ‘What’s my official classification, sir?’

      ‘You know that, Michael. Leave of absentia or some shit.’

      ‘She managed to obtain my personnel file. Well, parts of it. She thinks I’m a