the sight of Billy’s disfigured corpse, who would never be quite the same again, who would always equate University with that one defining moment. He counted himself amongst their number.
Sophie knocked on the office door and Lambert closed the screens with a single punch of the keypad.
‘Hungry?’
‘I had something earlier, thanks.’
‘Working?’ asked Sophie, unable to hide the hope in her voice.
‘Sort of.’
She hesitated by the door. ‘That’s good.’ She was holding back, wanted to find out more but was probably afraid of how he might respond.
Lambert stared ahead at the blank computer screens, desperate to get on with work, ashamed that he didn’t know how to talk to his estranged wife any longer.
‘Okay, just popping out for dinner.’
‘See you in the morning,’ said Lambert.
Sophie shut the office door and Lambert returned to the computer screens. He had to blank out what was happening in his marriage for the time being. He returned to the screens and read through the case details uploaded onto the HOLMES system.
In oculis animus habitat. The soul dwells in the eyes.
During the weeks following Nolan’s murder there had been much discussion as to the meaning of those words. The SIO at the time, DCI Julian Hastings, had questioned Lambert about his understanding of the words. Lambert had studied Latin in school but couldn’t translate the words exactly without looking it up.
Billy Nolan had been the ninth and, supposedly, final Souljacker victim. Now, from nowhere, the killer was back.
From her notes, Lambert read that DI May had begun researching the older cases. The first victim, Clive Hale, had been murdered over twenty two years ago, the next eight victims falling foul of the Souljacker over a period of four years. May had assigned a number of junior officers the duty of trawling through witness reports and suspect interviews. During the Nolan investigation, a local surgeon, Peter Randall, had been the chief suspect, but the case had never gone anywhere near the courts. There had been no forensic evidence and Randall had a clear alibi for the time of the murder. It had been the only significant arrest there had ever been on the case.
Lambert had kept in contact with DCI Hastings after the murder. Hastings had offered him advice on joining the force. Now a retired Chief Superintendent, Hastings had stayed obsessed with the Souljacker cases even into retirement. If May had any sense, Hastings would be the first person she contacted.
Lambert clicked a button on his keyboard and sat back in his office chair. DI Sarah May’s file on the latest killing played through his six computer screens in a reel of information. Lambert sat transfixed and absorbed the material. He often worked this way, viewing the details from an abstract position searching for a key word, sentence, or picture that would change everything.
The same age as Lambert, Vernon had worked as a retail manager for a large supermarket in the Cribbs Causeway area of Bristol. Described by family, friends, and colleagues as a shy, awkward sort of person, his hard work ethic had helped him reach a reasonable level in his career. Vernon was single. He had divorced parents and no siblings. He had strong links with a local evangelical church, Gracelife Bristol, the minister of which, Neil Landsdale, had described Vernon as a hard-working and selfless member of his congregation who ‘would be sorely missed’.
Lambert watched unblinking as the pages scrolled across the screens. He read and reread the information until something made him pause. It was a picture of Vernon, taken with his work colleagues at the supermarket. Vernon towered over everyone else. Thin and ungainly in an ill-fitting shiny polyester suit, he was clean shaven with short cropped hair, a well-defined face with high cheekbones, and strong jaw.
Lambert couldn’t make out the colour of his eyes. He stared hard at the image of Vernon, a memory returning to him. He clicked onto another screen and accessed details on Vernon’s personal file. He scanned down the file and stopped at Terrence’s mother, Sandra Vernon. He clicked on her name.
It took him less than sixty seconds to find out what he was looking for.
Sandra Vernon’s married name was Sandra Haydon. She had officially divorced Terrence’s father, Roger Haydon fifteen years ago, though they had separated when Terrence was a child.
Lambert reloaded the photo of the victim, Terrence Vernon. Lambert cursed under his breath. Terrence must have changed his surname to his mother’s maiden name.
At University, Lambert had known him as Terrence Haydon.
Lambert emailed DI May requesting a meeting for the following day. He didn’t share any information on the photos he’d received from Klatzky. He wanted to meet the woman face to face. After which he would decide if he wanted to take his personal investigation any further.
The fact that Klatzky had been sent the photos was obviously hugely significant but Lambert needed to know why he’d been sent them before he shared the details with anyone. His first thought was that the photos were a warning but the more he thought about it the less likely that seemed.
It came down to the sender. Lambert’s gut told him the killer had sent the photos and there was no logical reason for him to send a warning. It was possible the killer was playing a game with Klatzky. Like Lambert, Klatzky had been there the day Billy Nolan’s body had been found. Klatzky had been closer to Billy than anyone, and his life had spiralled out of control ever since Nolan’s death. Why the killer wanted to involve Klatzky now after all these years was anyone’s guess at the moment but at least it was a starting point for Lambert to pin his investigation on. A second starting point was the possibility that the killer was using Klatzky to lure Lambert into action. A more worrying thought had also occurred to him: that somehow the killer was attempting to set them up.
A nervous energy ran through him as he printed up relevant parts of the file. It was good to be back working, even on something so close to him. He took the files to the small bedroom at the top of the house. It was sparsely decorated with a single bed, desk, and chair, the flat screen television which hung on the wall taking up most of the space in the room. He flicked through the channels, unable to find anything of interest. He checked his email on his phone noticing that Klatzky had emailed him five times since their meeting, becoming more incoherent with each email. By the final email his words made little sense.
Lambert switched off the television and closed his eyes. His body hummed with tension, his chest tight as if an invisible weight pushed down on him. Eventually, the first flicker occurred. A fiery orange glow appeared to his left and blossomed into a collage of bright colour taking over his entire visual field. Infinite shades of red, yellow, and orange began to fade as his breathing slowed and he fell asleep.
He slept for three hours and reached Paddington station by six a.m. The station already teemed with commuters. Lambert booked his ticket and ordered a large black coffee from one of the shops in the large open-spaced concourse. He stretched his legs, alert and awake despite the meagre hours of sleep.
Lambert had survived most of his adult life on three to four hours a night and hadn’t suffered any detrimental side effects until four years ago when the hallucinations started. They occurred when he was overly tired or stressed. He had self-diagnosed his condition as a rare form of narcolepsy. It was something he’d never had checked out, fearing that an official diagnosis would affect his work. He had learned that the hallucinations were a signal that he was ready for sleep. He could control them now, to an extent. Unfortunately, that had not always been the case.
Lambert drank the bitter coffee, impatient for the train to arrive. May had yet to respond to his request for a meeting. He would give her until nine a.m. to reply to his email or his first destination would be her police station. Lambert watched the commuters and wondered if his own face mirrored the dull and sullen faces which hurried by him, everyone impatient and tired.