Dead Lucky

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 (#ulink_d1ec8102-c1ea-56f4-ad37-c1d69d494b88)

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.