up and had somehow managed to inflict the cuff marks on his own wrists as a defence. It was possible the scene Matilda was replaying in her mind was a lie.
She thought about the lawyer, Charles Robinson and his affair with Moira Sackville. Again, images played in her head like memories. Secret rendezvous, the bedroom games which had so appalled Prue McKenzie. She tried to picture Robinson as the intruder but couldn’t visualise it. He’d left a poor first impression on her but he was too much of a coward to have killed Moira. The way he’d tried to distance himself from her murder, offering a former client to distract them from him. Even the way he talked, the practised confidence, the silky charisma. He was like a chimera, – but again, they couldn’t rule him out. She had to shake the images of the murder from her head, and follow the facts.
‘Don’t mind, do you?’ DC Donald Walker took a seat opposite her. ‘How goes it Sergeant?’
Walker had been a member of her team for over two years. Last year they had both competed for a vacant sergeant position. Matilda was sure Walker had never forgiven her for winning.
‘What do you want, Walker?’
‘Just checking how your work with Lambert is going. Is he treating you right?’
Matilda sighed, deciding to get straight to the point. ‘Is this to do with the sergeant test again?’
Walker fidgeted in his chair, picked at his infuriatingly manicured beard. ‘We all know how you got that position, Kennedy.’
Matilda smiled. She’d attained the position through sheer hard work and results. Walker’s tendency to open his mouth before thinking was one of the reasons he’d yet to be promoted. She adopted her most patronising tone, knowing it would get to Walker. ‘Look, Don, I can’t help it that I was deemed to be the most suitable for the position. Maybe next time, yeah?’ She rolled her eyes upwards, enjoying Walker’s discomfort.
Walker nodded his head a few times. ‘You should have taken me up on my offer that time, you wouldn’t be speaking to me like that if you had.’
Matilda stared hard at the man. He was referring to the last Christmas party where he’d had too many mulled wines and had made a fumbled pass at her. ‘You were lucky I didn’t report you then. I’d watch what I said, if I were you.’
‘Oh, fuck off, Kennedy,’ he whispered through gritted teeth.
Matilda took a bite of her congealed jacket potato, and looked down at her paper.
Walked waited a beat and eventually took the hint.
She watched him leave in her peripheral vision, not lifting her head until she was sure he’d left the canteen. She tensed her arm, noting her hand was trembling. She should report him. She’d heard whispers from a couple of other female officers that the Christmas party was not an isolated incident, but she had to be careful. However progressive the Met presented itself, it was still male dominated. Complaints of sexual harassment were treated seriously, but there was always the risk of being ostracised. The worst he’d done to her was make a silly pass, which hadn’t bothered her that much. It was not enough to take it further, but she couldn’t help thinking that his behaviour might escalate, if not with her then with someone else.
Lambert called, distracting her. They agreed to meet at Lordship Lane in two hours. She returned to the office, and was about to start researching Charles Robinson when a booming voice called to her from the other end of the room.
‘Sergeant Kennedy. My office. Now,’ said Tillman.
Lambert stopped at a newsagent on Lordship Lane and purchased a bottle of water. The weather was relentless. The brief rainstorm earlier had done little to dampen the heat. His cotton shirt stuck to his body like a second skin. He downed the water in one and headed to the library. He kept getting the sense that the case was splintering in numerous directions, none of which were helping him. In cases like this, immediate family were normally where a case began and ended. Moira’s only family was Eustace and at the moment, Lambert couldn’t see him being involved. It was too complicated a set-up. If he’d wanted to eliminate his wife, for whatever reason, then it could have been done more easily. As a crime journalist, Eustace would have arranged things differently.
Not that they could eliminate him completely. Eustace knew about his wife’s adultery so there was a potential motive. It was possible that he could have paid someone to commit the crime, and paid extra to be able to watch. Lambert had encountered similar scenarios before. Eustace was full of grief but Lambert had seen plenty of guilty men grieve for their actions.
Kennedy had changed clothing since this morning. Gone was the plain trouser suit, in its place a green summer dress. Her red hair was still tied neatly in a bun, and when she greeted him he noticed she wore more make up than usual.
‘Something I should know?’
She screwed up her face, confused.
‘I didn’t realise we were dressing up,’ said Lambert.
‘Oh.’ A flash of colour spread over her cheeks and faded.
Lambert held up his hands. ‘I’m making no comment, Sergeant,’ he said, smiling.
‘Off to see a friend afterwards. Unless we have more work,’ she added, as a reluctant afterthought.
‘I’m sure we can spare you for one evening,’ he said, moving past her into the entrance of the library trying to ignore the faint scent of her perfume.
He was surprised to find the library full of people. The atmosphere inside was stifled. People sat at desks battling away at their laptops or reading newspapers and periodicals. Lambert made his way over to the enquiries desk, trying to ignore the stench of body odour emanating from an elderly man who was reading an oversized print hardback. ‘I’m here to see Sandra Levinson,’ he said to the spectacle-wearing man behind the desk.
The man squeezed the bridge of his nose, as if Lambert’s presence was an unwelcome distraction. ‘I believe she’s in her office. Up the stairs, through the door marked “do not enter”. Is she expecting you?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Kennedy had called earlier, informing the head librarian about Moira Sackville. It seemed the woman had yet to tell her staff about their colleague’s tragic, and violent, death. Either that or Moira’s death had failed to touch the man behind the desk in anyway.
‘You lead,’ he told Kennedy as they knocked on the door.
A striking woman with large opal eyes opened the door. ‘Hello?’ she said, her smile warm and compassionate, only the few fine lines under her eyes betraying her age.
‘Mrs Levinson? Sergeant Matilda Kennedy, we spoke on the phone earlier. This is DCI Michael Lambert.’
The smile vanished, as Levinson realised why they were there. ‘Do come through,’ she said.
The woman led them to a small office, little bigger than a broom cupboard, and asked them to sit. ‘I’m afraid I’m still coming to terms with what you told me this morning, Sergeant Kennedy. I’ve lived in London all my life and it’s the first time I’ve ever known someone…’ Her words drifted off, as if she’d finished the sentence in her mind.
‘Our sincere condolences, Mrs Levinson. Something like this is always a huge shock. There are people we can put you and your colleagues in touch with to help you through this time.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you know Moira well?’ asked Lambert.
‘Yes,’ said Levinson, looking intently at him. ‘I’ve been working here for five years. Moira was here when I started. In fact, I was surprised at the time that she’d not been offered my position. She had a wealth of experience, and a passion for the place which has been unequalled since. She later confided that she hadn’t