‘Great,’ whispered Lambert to himself. He considered hiding from the figure but Klatzky had already spotted him.
‘Mikey,’ he said, a little too loud. ‘I knew you would be here.’ Klatzky embraced him.
Competing odours overwhelmed Lambert. Sweat, cheap aftershave and stale nicotine were all linked by the reek of alcohol. Lambert kept his hands by his sides, tried to breathe through his mouth. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Simon?’ Despite the revulsion at Klatzky’s state, Lambert could not help but admire the man for finding him.
‘I knew Bristol would be the logical place for you to start,’ said Klatzky, slurring half of his words. ‘You never sleep, so it would have to be the first train. I’m coming with you.’
Lambert took a couple of steps back. ‘You’re not going anywhere, except home. Do you have any idea what you look like? What you smell like for that matter? I wouldn’t even sit in the same carriage as you let alone share a train journey.’
‘I need to come with you, Mikey. Look, I’m not afraid to admit it but I’m scared. He’s back. I want to know what’s happening, why he sent me the pictures. You told me not to go home, so I didn’t.’ Klatzky eyes darted around the station, as if he was surprised by his location.
Lambert shook his head. ‘You’ve been out all night?’
Klatzky shrugged his shoulders, a grin spreading across his face.
This was the last thing he needed. ‘Jesus. Listen, I’ll keep you informed. Where are you staying? Go and sleep it off. It’ll do you no good coming with me to Bristol.’
‘I need to know, Mikey,’ insisted Klatzky. He placed a shaking hand on Lambert’s shoulder, the leathery skin laced with wrinkles and a fine layer of black hair, the hand of a much older man. Lambert tried not to recoil from the touch.
The train was about to depart. Lambert took another step back and Klatzky’s shaking hand fell away. If the killer had sent Klatzky the file to get Lambert involved then the fear he saw in his friend’s eyes was at least partly his responsibility. ‘Okay, Simon. You can come with me but you can’t interfere. Is that understood?’
‘You’re a saint, Mikey,’ said Klatzky.
‘Shall we go then?’
‘I need a ticket,’ said Klatzky.
‘Oh I see. I’ll get you one on the train.’
Mercifully, Klatzky fell asleep before the train pulled out of Paddington station. He collapsed in a heap, his frail body lying at an awkward angle in the seats opposite Lambert.
Lambert opened his holdall and searched its contents. He pulled out a newspaper, and the file he had compiled on the Souljacker murders. There was still nothing from May on his phone. The conductor approached and Lambert purchased a return ticket for Klatzky with his credit card.
Klatzky snored himself awake as the train pulled into Swindon. His body spasmed, his head cracking against the underside of the table with a thud. Lambert tried not to laugh as the man composed himself.
‘How long have I been asleep?’ said Klatzky, rubbing his head.
‘Fifty minutes or so.’
Klatzky dusted himself down, his aged leather jacket creaking at each movement. He shuffled himself into position, sitting opposite Lambert. A waft of pungent air drifted across the table.
‘Your ticket,’ said Lambert.
‘Thanks, I’ll pay you back.’
Lambert stopped the woman pushing a drinks trolley down the aisle of the carriage.
‘Coffee,’ groaned Klatzky.
‘Make that two,’ said Lambert. They sat for a while in silence. Klatzky wincing as he took the occasional sip of coffee.
‘What happened to us eh, Mikey?’ said Klatzky a few minutes later.
Lambert was reading one of the three books he’d brought with him, a mostly useless textbook on lucid sleeping. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you remember those train journeys we used to take to Bristol on our way to University? We’d be half cut by now.’
‘You are half cut.’
‘Maybe,’ said Klatzky. ‘What happened to you, anyway? You were so happy go lucky then. You didn’t take anything seriously, not even your degree. Now look at you.’
‘That was twenty years ago, Simon.’ Lambert linked his hands together and rested his chin on them, staring at Klatzky.
In response, Klatzky leant towards him. Pointing his finger, he said, ‘We all grow up, Michael, but you changed. You’ve changed intrinsically as a person.’
Lambert laughed, but felt his facial muscles tighten as his face reddened. ‘Intrinsically? What are you talking about, Simon?
Klatzky slumped back in his seat. ‘If you don’t know what I’m talking about then there’s no point in explaining,’ he said. He drank the last of his coffee, screwing his eyes shut as he downed the dregs.
Lambert thought about continuing the bizarre argument, realising it was pointless arguing with Klatzky when he was in this mood. He opened his newspaper and spent the rest of the journey skimming through the despairing stories, his thoughts constantly returning to the file in his jacket pocket and what it all meant. At face value, it didn’t make much sense. Serial killers like the Souljacker didn’t just take eighteen years off between killings. If it was the same killer then there must have been a reason for the killer to have stopped in the first place, and more importantly a catalyst which had propelled him back to work.
Once in Bristol, they ordered breakfast at a small greasy spoon café outside Temple Meads station. Klatzky’s head drooped as they waited for their orders, his hangover clearly reaching its peak.
A teenage girl in a pink apron placed their breakfasts on the table. She grinned, the white of her teeth obscured by a thick metal brace. Piling his fork with a mixture of sausage, bacon and egg, Klatzky perked up. With his mouth half full he mumbled, ‘So what are our plans for today?’
‘Well, I plan to go to the University and have a look at our old halls of residence. And if I haven’t heard back from her I’m going to call the lead investigator on the case.’
‘Are we going to get a hotel?’ asked Klatzky, slicing through an egg yolk smothered in ketchup.
‘No, I want to be out of this place by the end of the day.’
‘Oh come on, Mikey, we could visit some old haunts. For old times’ sake.’
Lambert turned his face to the side, stretching his neck muscles. ‘It’s not a jolly, Simon. You asked me to help. This is work for me.’ He already regretted allowing Klatzky to accompany him on the journey, and sensed things were only going to get worse.
Klatzky returned to his breakfast, sulking like a scolded child. ‘I was thinking of calling the others,’ he said, a couple of minutes later. He finished his breakfast, wiping his plate clean with a thin slice of white bread. He looked Lambert in the eyes for the first time since they’d left the train.
‘That’s not a good idea,’ said Lambert.
‘Why not? We haven’t all been together for years,’ said Klatzky.
There had been six of them in their group. They’d spent their three years at University together as the tightest of cliques, all deciding to reapply for halls in the third year. ‘There’s a reason for that, Simon.’ Lambert placed some money on the table and left the café before Klatzky could argue further.
Over the years, Klatzky had been the only one who had tried to keep the group together. There had been the occasional impromptu reunion every few months after they’d graduated but the get-togethers had never been