Dead Eyed

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.

Chapter 3 (#ua65e9baf-bb2e-56cb-af47-5440b2121e3c)

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.

A different type of figure emerged from the set of escalators which rose from the underground. The unsteady figure of a man dressed in faded jeans and tattered leather jacket staggered towards him.

‘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?