Читать книгу: «Dead Lucky»

For my Nan, Eileen Burnell

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

He tried to stretch. His back was pushed tight against the wall, his covered head snagged between two coat hooks. Every other breath brought with it the stench of foot odour and moth bombs.

He’d been in the flat for three hours, the last two of which had been in the wardrobe. Preparation was important. The woman was predictable, she would return after work, the husband less so. His behaviour was erratic of late. He’d been spending more time at the bar than at work.

He stretched once more, savouring being alone, going over the plan again and again until it was so embedded in his mind that it was almost a memory.

The woman arrived on time. His pulse didn’t alter as he listened to her move around the room, the strange noises she made, thinking she was alone.

Eventually she left the room. Realising he’d been holding his breath, he let it out in a rush, his lungs filling with the trapped, musty air of his hiding cell.

It was another two hours before the husband arrived. He heard the front door click open, the heavy steps as the husband walked into the living room, the muted voices as the couple exchanged pleasantries.

He was about to leave his confines when he heard the woman enter the en-suite bathroom. He edged the wardrobe open. The bathroom door was ajar and he tiptoed across the bedroom floor in time to see the woman pulling up her garments.

As she left the room, he placed his right hand on her shoulder. She jumped, and rounded on him thinking he was her husband. She stared at him for a second, her mouth agape. A look of confusion crept across her face and for a heartbeat it was as if she’d been expecting his arrival. Then, realising what was happening was all too real, she went to scream.

With a practised move, he reached out and covered her mouth before she could give sound to her situation.

Chapter 2

Lambert sensed the decay as he entered the building.

He’d been here before.

Inside, the cloying stench of antiseptic and bleach did little to mask the subtle odours of illness and death which permeated from the walls of the hollow reception area.

He knew where he was going, he’d visited the same ward on numerous occasions many years ago. His body guided him along the route without him having to think, a homing instinct he’d thought long extinguished. He tried to ignore the people he passed. An elderly man, wisps of dry grey hair atop a wrinkled skull, wheeling a bag full of yellowing liquid which seeped into his veins. An obese teenage girl, pushed along in a wheelchair by two similar sized youths, her plastered leg protruding in the air like a weapon. And finally a man he’d hoped to avoid, leaving the lift as Lambert was about to enter.

The man, immaculate in a pinstriped suit and coiffured hair, froze. Lambert had to suppress a smile as the colour literally drained from the man’s face. His healthy St Tropez tan faded into a ghost-like white.

‘Michael,’ said the man, holding out his hand.

Lambert ignored the outstretched limb, not yet ready to be fully grown up about the situation. He entered the lift and turned to watch Jeremy Taylor, partner of Price Barker Solicitors, shake himself as if from a daze and walk away.

‘Michael Lambert,’ he said, into the box outside the ward. ‘I’m here to see Sophie Lambert.’ He remembered a time twelve years ago when he’d said the very same thing into what looked like the very same box. Only then he’d been visiting on happier terms.

The screams started as soon as he was buzzed into the ward, the sound of tortured women, flesh being torn. The nurses’ desk was empty. Lambert considered walking the corridors in search of Sophie but didn’t want to risk intruding on the other patients. Eventually, a smiling nurse gave him directions to Sophie’s room. The woman beamed at him as if this should be the greatest day of his life.

He ambled down the corridor, debating whether or not to turn and flee the scene, until he reached the entrance to Sophie’s room.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the threshold. For a time he just stood there dumbstruck, forgetting to breathe. Sophie sat upright in bed, cheeks pinched red, a tiny figure clamped to her breast. Smiling, she beckoned him over.

It was too late to leave. He took a seat next to her bed. ‘How did it go?’ he asked, not knowing what else to say.

Lambert had been virtually estranged from his wife, Sophie, for the last three years following the death of their daughter, Chloe, though they had continued sharing a house together. During that time Sophie had had a brief affair with Jeremy Taylor, the solicitor Lambert had just encountered, who was the father of the child his wife was holding.

The child released itself from Sophie with a smacking sound and looked in Lambert’s direction. ‘Do you want to hold her?’ asked Sophie, as unsure about the situation as he was.

‘No. Thank you. I’m okay.’

Tears welled in Sophie’s eyes. ‘This little thing is Chloe’s sister,’ she whispered, stroking the baby’s head.

Lambert choked back his own tears. The baby was the closest thing there would ever be to Chloe but there was no avoiding the fact that she wasn’t his. He poured a beaker of water, taking some time to think. ‘Do you have a name for her?’ he asked, his voice coming out as a squawk – like an adolescent boy’s.

‘I wanted to call her Jane.’ Sophie hesitated, looked down at the baby for support. ‘If you will give me permission, Jane Chloe.’

Lambert looked away, forcing back tears, picturing his little girl before the accident. Her curious smile and unending joy for the world, and how he had destroyed it all by losing control of his car. He didn’t know if it was a good idea giving this new child Chloe’s name. He didn’t want her to be haunted by her dead sister, or for her to grow up feeling she was a replacement, but he knew Sophie would never ever let her feel that way. ‘If you think that is best,’ he said.

‘What do you think, Michael?’

‘I think it would be wonderful,’ he said, darting his hand across his eyes, turning to face them. The child looked back at him as Chloe had done all those years before.

He left ten minutes later, refusing to be overwhelmed by his growing sense of loneliness. He’d left the family home three months earlier, informing Sophie that it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to stay. He’d even discussed divorce proceedings with her but she’d wanted to get through the pregnancy before making any decisions. Although he was happy for her, he knew he should have been the father of that little girl back in the ward. As he took the lift, he envisaged a future without Sophie. He imagined her raising Jane without him.

His vision blurred as he entered the main lobby of the hospital. Fiery lights danced in front of his eyes. The dizzying colours – flickers of burning ember, a multitude of shades and sizes – signified the start of a hallucinatory episode. From research on the internet he’d self-diagnosed his condition as a form of hallucinatory narcolepsy. It was the same type of episode he’d suffered when driving Chloe.

The episodes had occurred more often in the last few months, ever since Sophie’s pregnancy and the Souljacker case. The trigger was usually a lack of sleep, or stress. At the moment, he was suffering from both.

He sat down on a bench, the material cold and hard against his flesh, and closed his eyes. He told himself he was in a good place. The episodes normally occurred at home in bed, a smooth precursor to sleep. Knowing it was unwise to fight, he lay his head against the rough textured wall and fell asleep.

‘Sir, sir.’ The hand pulled at his shoulder, the accent foreign. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I need to clean here.’

Lambert darted awake and took in his surroundings. He was still in the hospital. He checked his watch. He’d been asleep for three hours.

‘Sorry, sir,’ repeated the cleaner, switching on a floor polisher which whirred into life with a deafening drone.

Lambert stood and stretched. The place had thinned out with normal visiting hours over. Lonely patients walked the floors like ghosts, occasionally passed by a hurrying doctor or nurse. The three hours had refreshed him and had evaporated, for a time, his worries over Sophie and the new child. It was eleven p.m. He considered calling Sarah, but decided it was too late. She would either be sleeping, or out working on the case. Either way, he wouldn’t know what to tell her. He didn’t fully understand how he felt about the situation at the moment, and was in no mood to analyse his feelings. Knowing he wouldn’t get back to sleep that evening, there was little option but to return to work.

Lambert had resumed his position within the National Crime Agency two months previously, following his unofficial pursuit and capture of the notorious serial killer, dubbed the Souljacker. Since returning, he’d been working on an international drugs case. The case had proved challenging, and there was still months of work ahead.

Lambert was part of a small specialised team, his NCA team working with the Met’s joint Organised Crime Partnership. So far they had arrested a number of small time dealers, and inroads were slowly being made into the main distributors.

Lambert caught the tube to Westminster and made the short walk to the NCA’s headquarters, the June night air still thick with heat from the day.

His office was deserted. Lambert often survived on three to four hours’ sleep a night so was often alone in the neon-lit open-plan office. He opened up The System, an unofficial amalgamated database of police computer systems, traffic systems, CCTV images, and social media back ends. The System had been created for the now defunct organisation called The Group and was only available for select officers within the NCA. He was about to log in when the office doors exploded open.

‘Just the person,’ said the rotund bulldog-like man who had barged through the doors as if they were an unnecessary obstacle.

Chief Superintendent Glenn Tillman stood in front of him, hands on hips like some ageing superhero. Tillman had headed up The Group until it was disbanded six months ago and had recruited Lambert back into the NCA.

‘Sir?’

‘Sit,’ said Tillman. ‘Something important has come up.’

Lambert, who was already sitting, swivelled his chair around. ‘I was just about to log in.’

Tillman pulled a second chair over. ‘The drugs case? No, I want you to pass that over. Give your workload to Bryant. I need you on something else.’

He handed Lambert a piece of paper. Lambert turned it over and read an address in Dulwich.

‘You know the journalist, Eustace Sackville?’

Lambert nodded. He’d met the man, a crime specialist on a national broadsheet, on a number of occasions.

‘His wife’s just been murdered and the case has been assigned to us. I want you to work with Kennedy. Get down there straight away and take the case over. The body was found three hours ago so you better be quick. An Inspector Wright is at the scene at the moment but knows it’s passing to us.’

‘That must have gone down well.’

Tillman shrugged.

‘Why us?’ asked Lambert, suspecting the truth.

‘You know the sort of information Sackville has access to. We want the best on this and your name came up as someone suitable to lead the case.’

Lambert nodded.

‘One more thing,’ said Tillman, handing Lambert an iPad. ‘Moira Sackville,’ he said, pointing to a picture of sixty-year-old woman bound to a chair.

Lambert flicked through to a second image. The lifeless figure of Moira Sackville, drained of colour, slash marks on each wrist, a puddle of blood by her ankles.

Tillman rubbed his chin. Lambert had known Tillman for ten years. In that time, the only sign of insecurity he’d ever seen in the man was the odd propensity of rubbing his chin in times of stress.

‘It took some time for Mrs Sackville to bleed out…’ said Tillman, lowering the volume of his voice as Lambert continued scrolling through the images until he reached a picture of a second chair, empty save for two binds hanging loose from the armrests. ‘… and her husband was made to watch every minute of it.’

Chapter 3

Detective Sergeant Matilda Kennedy was waiting for him at the crime scene, loitering outside the police cordon like an over-interested member of the public. She wore denim jeans, and a dark jacket over a t-shirt. Her red hair was hung loose on her shoulders, and Lambert wondered if she’d been on a night out when the call had come in.

‘Sir,’ she said, by means of greeting.

‘You haven’t been in yet?’ asked Lambert.

‘Thought I’d better wait for you. The SOCOs haven’t cleared the scene yet, and I believe there is a pissed off inspector on the warpath.’

Lambert was sure he saw her eyes sparkle at the last comment. He hadn’t worked directly with the young sergeant before but had heard only good reports. Apparently she was a sharp officer with a keen eye for detail. ‘I better go speak to him now,’ said Lambert, spotting DI Wright beyond the cordon. He showed the waiting uniformed officer his warrant card and scrambled beneath the tape.

‘James,’ said Lambert, offering his hand.

‘Ah, DCI Lambert. I hear you’re taking over my case,’ said Wright, shaking the proffered hand.

‘What can I say? Orders.’

‘Orders,’ mimicked Wright, resigned to the situation. ‘You up to speed?’

‘To a certain extent. Where is Sackville now?’

‘He’s been escorted to hospital for a check. Suffering from shock, unsurprisingly.’

It was the same hospital Sophie was staying in. ‘How did he manage to call it in?’ Lambert had listened to the 999 call on the way over. Sackville’s haunted voice, matter-of-factly informing the operator that his wife had been murdered.

‘We haven’t managed to get any details from him. You’ll see the set-up when you’re let upstairs. He had marks to his wrists consistent with being handcuffed and tied. He mumbled something about being untied. It’s possible the killer let him go so he could call it in.’

It was another hour before the SOCOs released the flat. Lambert had a sense of déjà vu as he viewed the scene, having seen the images on Tillman’s phone. The incident had taken place in the Sackville’s dining room. Lambert studied the two chairs, facing each other, and imagined the horrific nature of what had taken place. He pictured Eustace Sackville begging for mercy from the killer, offering himself in place of his wife; the look of terror on Moira Sackville’s face, seeing her husband’s pleading eyes. The despair and loss on both their faces as her life faded away.

‘Any sign of a break in?’ asked Lambert.

Wright shook his head. We’ve checked the locks on the door, the windows, even the loft. The killer was either invited in, or was already in the house.

The dining room was humid and stuffy, yet Lambert still felt a chill as he looked around. ‘She bled out from her wrists,’ he said, thinking aloud rather than asking for clarity.

‘No other noticeable marks on her so far. The pathologist is pretty sure the wounds to her wrists are the cause of death. Obviously we’ll know more after the autopsy,’ said Wright.

‘Have we ruled out suicide?’ said Kennedy.

‘I haven’t ruled anything out so far,’ said Lambert. He pushed the chair where Moira had sat, noting it was lighter than he’d imagined from the pictures on the iPad. He tested the chair where Eustace had supposedly sat. Unless his legs had been tied, the man should have been able to force himself up from the sitting position. Whether this meant anything was yet to be determined. ‘I take it we’ve requested CCTV footage from the surrounding areas.’

‘Yes, I’ve done most of your job for you,’ said Wright, adding a mischievous, ‘sir,’ as Lambert fixed him with a hard stare.

‘Thanks for your help, James. I’ll call if we need anything else.’

They shook hands and Wright left.

‘He seems happy about this,’ said Kennedy, deadpan.

‘Had any dealing with Eustace Sackville before?’ asked Lambert.

‘No. I did a quick check on the way over. He’s been a bit quiet recently. No articles that I can find in the last nine months. I checked with the paper and he’s still on staff,’ said Kennedy, brushing a loose strand of red hair from her face.

‘Initial thoughts?’ asked Lambert.

‘Presumptuous to look beyond Mr Sackville at the moment. No sign of a break in. I’d be interested to see the insurance policy on his wife. Could have been a poor attempt at suicide, could have been an elaborate set-up by Mr Sackville. Too many unknowns, as Tillman would say.’

Lambert was impressed by Kennedy’s quick thinking. Although she was an experienced officer, most of her previous work had been organised crime. She would have seen murder scenes before, but nothing like this. Tillman’s team didn’t generally get involved in crimes of this nature. Normally something like this would be left to the Met’s murder squads, or major incident teams. The Group had been formed to work on more covert operations, and since its disbandment Lambert had noticed their work was becoming more streamlined. Despite what Tillman had said about him being requested from above, it was hard not to feel that working on the case was some sort of demotion or, if not that, possibly a test to see if he was truly ready to return to work.

‘I’m going to see Sackville. Tillman is setting up an incident room. Get the team together for a seven a.m. meet, and liaise with DI Wright over the CCTV footage. I want to know about everyone who set foot in this building in the last twenty-four hours.’

Lambert caught a taxi back to the hospital. He sat in the back and listened to Eustace Sackville’s 999 call on his headphones again, searching for evidence that the man had been lying. His voice was whispered, but deep in tone. Lambert remembered Sackville as a smoker, and the years of nicotine had affected his vocal chords. ‘It’s my wife, she’s been murdered.’ The words were hauntingly simple, Sackville’s voice drained of emotion – as if the fight had left him.

The operator went through the preliminaries, ascertaining location and if the intruder was still there.

‘I watched her die,’ added Sackville. ‘He tied me up and made me watch her die. There was nothing I could do.’

The rest of the conversation, broken with sobs and a deep guttural coughing from Sackville, was unintelligible.

The hospital was even more desolate than before. Lambert wandered the labyrinthine corridors, trying not to think about Sophie who was asleep several floors above. He flashed his warrant card to the two uniformed police officers sitting outside Sackville’s room.

‘We’ve been told he can’t be interviewed until morning, sir,’ said one of the pair, a nervous looking officer who looked barely old enough to have completed his GCSEs.

‘No one’s spoken to him?’

‘A member of Inspector Wright’s team did, sir, but by all accounts he wasn’t making any sense.’

‘Who’s the doctor in charge?’

‘Dr Nitesh Patel. I’m afraid he’s gone home,’ said the constable, surprising Lambert by blushing.

‘He’s been sedated,’ added the other constable.

‘Great.’ It was five a.m. and the only witness to Moira Sackville’s death was comatose. ‘I need to know the exact second he wakes or the doctor makes an appearance. Do not let anyone other than medical staff into that room. Clear?’

‘Sir.’

Lambert walked the streets looking for somewhere to buy coffee. He found a petrol station with one of the newer coffee machines which used real beans. He called Kennedy, wincing as he sipped the bitter liquid.

‘Everyone is ready at the incident room,’ she said.

‘Ok, I’m going to delay the meeting until Sackville is lucid. Any news on the CCTV?’

‘There are two cameras on the front of the Sackvilles’ building, and more along the street. We’re going through the footage now but I’m afraid it’s a busy place. Lots of people coming and going.’

‘You don’t need to be told to search for anything unusual. Focus on people who have to be buzzed into the building rather than those who have keys, though don’t rule anyone out. Hopefully we’ll know more when I speak to Sackville.’