Dead Eyed. Matt Brolly

      ‘It made me think,’ said Lambert.

      ‘A new one, but go on.’

      ‘About coming back.’

      Tillman didn’t respond. Lambert’s leave had been out of necessity. The accident had left him in an induced coma, followed by months of physical and mental rehabilitation. Tillman had never visited him during that time, but Lambert still received a small salary despite the accident occurring out of work.

      ‘Sir?’ said Lambert.

      ‘You want to come back?’ said Tillman.

      ‘I want to know where I would stand.’

      ‘We’ll meet once you’ve finished playing detectives,’ said Tillman, hanging up.

      Lambert placed the phone on the bedside table and collapsed into the softness of the bed. Talking to Tillman had deflated his new enthusiasm. He’d never blamed anyone else for what had happened to Chloe. He’d revelled in his guilt, replaying the incident time after time, day after day. He’d refused all offers of help, from his wife and extended family, from his work colleagues. He carried his child’s death around with him like a millstone, and it impacted on everything. His wife wanted nothing more to do with him, and Tillman knew he wouldn’t be ready for work until he had dealt with it.

      A tightness filled his chest, and he sat upright fighting the sensation. He stumbled to the bathroom and drank heavily from the sink tap. Forgetting his guilt would be a betrayal of Chloe’s memory but maybe there was another way to honour her. It could never bring her back, and he could never be redeemed, but he needed to move forward with the case.

       Chapter 8

      Lance Crosby left the small bookshop opposite the University building. He’d been waiting for three hours, ever since Lambert had caught the taxi. He watched Lambert enter the building and called it in.

      ‘Sit tight,’ said the man on the other end of the line.

      Lance did as instructed. It was his third day on the job. The last two days had been spent in London following Lambert’s friend, Simon Klatzky. Keeping track of Klatzky had meant visiting an unending array of public houses, until yesterday when he’d contacted Lambert.

      Lance had photographed the second man and forwarded the photos onto Campbell, who had taken great pleasure in the news.

      In an instant, the focus changed. Lance had been following Lambert ever since. Following Lambert was more complicated. Campbell had warned him that Lambert was a professional and so it had proved. Lance hoped the other two would arrive soon. Sooner or later his luck would run out and Lambert would spot him. He’d kept his distance this morning on the tube and latterly on the train but Lambert was police. He’d told Campbell as much but the words went unheeded.

      Before he had time to react, Lambert left the University building. Lance followed at a distance as Lambert walked down Park Street, heading for the Marriott hotel at the bottom of the hill.

      Lance updated his boss.

      ‘Go back to the University and watch Klatzky,’ instructed Campbell.

      Back at the building, following a gruelling trek back up Park Street, Lance showed the security guard a fake ID and went in search of the union bar. It was no surprise to find the second man there. Simon Klatzky sat at a table drowning his sorrows. Somehow he’d convinced a number of female students, attractive ones at that, to join him.

      Lance ordered a Diet Coke from the bar and took a seat, imagining he was in for a long day.

       Chapter 9

      Like Bradbury had suggested, Blood Kill was full of authentic procedural detail but May found herself drawn to the story as well which was about the murder of teenage girl, a girl blind from birth. The main detective was a methodical and morally superior Superintendent. From what Bradbury had told her, Hastings had become obsessed with the Souljacker case during his time on the force. It had proved to be the major case he never solved, and there was an obvious parallel to the girl in his novel. She wondered if writing the book was cathartic for Hastings, if the success of his fictional hero in finding the killer alleviated his own perceived failings. She closed the book halfway through, surprised how engrossed she had become with the case.

      Jack Bradbury stopped her as she left the office.

      ‘I thought you’d want to know. Sandra Vernon called. Apparently your friend Michael Lambert paid her a visit earlier on today.’

      ‘How long ago?’ asked May.

      ‘A few minutes. She called as soon as he’d left. She wasn’t very happy. He claimed he was a friend of Terrence Haydon and had called around to pay his respects.’

      ‘True in a way, I suppose. Did she have anything else to add?’

      ‘That he was asking some odd questions. In particular about Terrence’s father.’

      ‘What did he want exactly?’

      ‘She sounded a bit pissed,’ said Bradbury. ‘Lambert wanted to know the man’s address. Vernon didn’t pass on the details.’

      Although she didn’t consider him a serious suspect, May had placed Lambert’s picture on the incident board next to Klatzky’s. She’d warned him not to start his own investigation but knew he would still get involved. Procedurally it would be difficult to officially get him working on the case, though it would definitely be beneficial. ‘You saw Terrence’s father yesterday?’ she asked Bradbury.

      Bradbury nodded. She remembered his report. The man lived alone in a council estate in Weston-super-Mare. Sad figure by all accounts. He hadn’t seen his son in over twenty years. ‘Okay, I’ll have another word with him today.’

      ‘What, Lambert?’

      May crossed her arms. ‘Yes, Lambert. Is there anything else?’

      ‘No, ma’am,’ replied Bradbury. With a brief flash of the puppy dog eyes, he turned away.

      The hospital was less than a mile from the Central Police Station so she decided to walk. As she left the building, she thought she saw a figure from her past. She rubbed her eyes, as the figure disappeared around a corner, and retrieved a pair of sunglasses from her bag.

      May had arranged to meet Siobhan Callahan at the hospital. Callahan worked as an Occupational Therapist. She’d been one of the students on the fifth floor of the halls of residence during the period when Billy Nolan’s body was discovered eighteen years ago.

      She’d also been Michael Lambert’s girlfriend.

      May uncovered her following a thorough reading of the student statements. She couldn’t believe her luck when she’d discovered the woman worked less than a mile from her office.

      The extended heatwave still gripped the city, the late September sky a cloudless blue. May trekked up the hill which led to the hospital and searched for Callaghan’s department on the noticeboard in the main foyer. She followed the green line which led to the occupational therapy department. She recalled her own time at University, and the boyfriends she’d had there. She didn’t know how she would have reacted if someone wanted to talk to her about any of them. She rarely dwelled on the past, couldn’t relate to the wide-eyed girl she’d been in her early twenties. She viewed her past like a voyeur, her memories akin to a reader imagining a character from a book.

      Siobhan Callaghan was not what she’d expected. May had pictured a stereotypical Irish girl, buxom and red-haired. The woman in front of her had short, spikey black hair, and a thin wiry body. Her face had a boyish quality to it.

      ‘Oh yes, Inspector. Sorry, I’ve been rushed off my feet today. Please come on through.’ She led her through to a small white cubicle, with a desk, two plastic chairs and an elevated bed. Like the rest