Dead Lucky

‘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.

Chapter 10 (#ulink_51cf303d-2cd2-55ce-9851-bb9a8bf3f507)

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 applied for the role, that she didn’t want the added burden of such responsibility. She will be sorely missed.’

‘Could you tell me a bit more about the person she was?’ asked Kennedy.

Levinson turned to face Kennedy. Her look was intense. She focused on Matilda as if she was the only person in the room. If Kennedy was intimidated by the look, she didn’t show it.

‘As I mentioned, she was very passionate about the library. She was an avid reader, most of us are, as you can probably imagine. She loved helping people. There was a small band of elderly women who used to come see her every week for advice on what to read next.’

‘How did she get on with other members of staff?’ asked Lambert.

Levinson turned her focus, her eyes boring into him. ‘Very well. We’re quite a close knit team.’

‘No animosity? Trouble with any of the library’s patrons?’ asked Kennedy.

‘Moira? You couldn’t wish to meet a lovelier person. In all my time here, I never heard a bad word said about her, or by her.’ Levinson had raised her tone, and sounded defensive.

‘Did you ever meet with her away from work?’ asked Lambert.

‘Not really. We have the occasional social get-together, at Christmas, that sort of thing.’

‘Did you ever meet her friends, or family?’

‘I met her husband once. Very jolly chap. He’s a journalist. I helped him with some research on local history.’

‘Did she ever confide in you?’ asked Kennedy.

‘About what?’

‘Anything.’

‘We didn’t really have that sort of relationship, I’m afraid. We were colleagues first, friends second. I wish I could help you, I really do. I can’t believe anyone would do this purposely to Moira. I mean, no one would single her out. I can only imagine it was random.’

Lambert stood, uninterested as to the woman’s opinions on motive. ‘Thank you, Mrs Levinson, you’ve been a great help. We’ll be in contact tomorrow. Some officers will be over to speak to the members of your team. In the meantime, please let me know if you think of anything which may be of help,’ he said, handing over his card.

‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ said Kennedy, outside.

‘Nothing is a waste of time. We know now she didn’t socialise much with her colleagues. She loved books. Eustace was researching the local area. Any of those points may become relevant.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Kennedy, who was almost hopping on the spot with eagerness to get away.

Lambert paused. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’