Dead Lucky

‘What about Eustace? Did you get on well with him?’

‘He’s a nice enough guy. I haven’t really been able to socialise much with him despite him being married to my best friend. He was, he is, how should I put it … awkward in the sort of social situations we move in.’

The comment was meant to be harmless, throwaway, but Matilda saw a glimpse of the real Prue McKenzie in her words.

‘In what way, awkward?’ she asked.

‘My husband is a QC, you know, a barrister.’

Matilda nodded.

‘So a lot of our friends are, how shall we say, from the higher echelons of society. Moira could deal with that side of things, her family were well-to-do and she was left a lot of money. Eustace doesn’t come from that sort of world and he didn’t really try to blend in.’

‘In what way? Was he just quiet during functions, that sort of thing?’

‘Yes that and, it’s sounds ludicrous, but he never put any effort into his appearance. Moira was fed up with it but she was sort of resigned.’

‘Would you say they had a happy marriage?’

‘I suppose so, but dynamics change over the years. You’ll find that when you reach our age.’

Matilda didn’t need to reach any age to understand that. ‘Do you think Eustace could have had any enemies?’

‘It’s possible, given the sort of world he moved in – investigating criminals and whatnot. I didn’t really know much about his work and Moira didn’t like to share. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s only our first day of our investigation, we’re just looking at all avenues at the moment.’

The woman seemed to have regained full composure, as if the death of her closest friend was a mere shock to the system which she’d already overcome. Matilda could tell she had something further to say, but rather than ask, she waited. The painful silence was alleviated by the ticking of the antique grandfather clock and the distant sounds of builders working on the nearest loft conversion.

‘There was one thing,’ said McKenzie, with false reluctance, like a classic gossip. ‘I can’t believe I’m telling you this but it will come out at some point. Moira was seeing somebody. You didn’t get this information from me but it was one of the barristers at my husband’s chambers, Charles Robinson. He’s quite dashing and they met at one of my get-togethers.’

‘How long was this going on?’

‘Five years.’

Matilda sat back in the sofa, trying to control the wave of adrenaline that had come over her.

‘Charles wouldn’t hurt anybody, though’

Matilda sensed there was more. ‘Tell me about them.’

Prue made a strange face as if sucking on a sour sweet. Matilda knew the woman couldn’t help herself. ‘Moira told me some things about him, you know, sexual things.’

Matilda’s heart raced, desperate for the information, thinking she may have made a breakthrough so early in the case. ‘What sort of things?’ she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

‘Let’s just say he did things Eustace wouldn’t do. I don’t know what the term is… S and M? I asked her to stop telling me after a time, I couldn’t look Charles in the face.’

Matilda tried not to snigger at the sourness spreading across the woman’s face. ‘It would be helpful if you can give me some more details,’ she said, gently. ‘It could really help us.’

‘I used to drown her out when she’d tell me things but he used to tie her up. I don’t think it was anything too serious but she was always on about ropes and ties and what have you. Once she even mentioned he’d bought a pair of handcuffs.’

Chapter 7 (#ulink_74adb81e-a4b1-56ba-b225-6aa9852a7357)

Lambert alighted from the DLR at Canary Wharf station. Towering glass structures surrounded him on every side as he walked by the river. Kennedy had called him whilst he’d been on the train but he’d yet to check his voicemail. He was still suspicious of her earlier meeting with Tillman. There was something in the way she’d left Tillman’s office which had annoyed him. If the meeting had to do with anything about the case then Lambert should have been informed. It wasn’t proper protocol and Lambert had a distinct feeling that he wasn’t yet fully trusted by his old colleague and superior, Tillman.

There had been a number of discrepancies Tillman had helped him with on the Souljacker case, not least a dead body found in Lambert’s house. Tillman had questioned him extensively before allowing him to rejoin the NCA. He’d told Lambert it was the right time to return, but Lambert knew the man well enough not to take everything he said at face value.

The midday sun bounced off the glass panels and a drip of sweat tumbled down Lambert’s forehead. He wiped it away with a brush of his hand, for a moment feeling completely isolated. Work had helped divert his attention but still his thoughts returned to his wife and her newborn child. The thought of Chloe’s sister made him feel even more alone. He tried to shake the sense that Sophie would start a new life away from him and he would be left with his desolate bedsit and what remained of his career.

He walked through the revolving doors to the press building and after signing in took the lift to the fortieth floor. The doors pinged open to a hive of activity. A vast, open-plan workspace, filled with journalists working at their laptops and PCs. It was a stark contrast to the press rooms of old – the smoky, booze-fuelled workplaces where the hacks used to scratch out stories amongst the background of expletive banter. No one paid any attention as he walked across the office floor. He smirked as he passed a row of journalists working at stand-up desks, and knocked on an office door at the other end of the room.

A young woman, late twenties at most, opened the door and appraised him, assessing him in one quick glance as if she could see directly into his soul. ‘DCI Lambert?’ she said, holding out her hand.

Lambert shook hands, trying hard to hide his confusion.

‘Mia Helmer. You look surprised, Mr Lambert.’

‘Sorry, old habit. I’m ashamed to say I was expecting someone…’

‘More male?’ said the woman, showing him into her office.

‘Actually no. I was going to say, older, but I guess that’s not appropriate either.’

The woman took a seat behind a vast glass desk, adorned only by a laptop. Her face broke into a smile for the briefest of seconds before returning to her default look, which was an unreadable mask. ‘You wanted to speak to me about Eustace?’ she said pointing to a seat opposite.

‘Yes, thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I’m afraid it is really crucial that this conversation is off the record for the time being.’

Mia raised her eyebrows. Helmer was the crime editor for the paper, Sackville’s direct line manager. ‘So what do you have to tell me?’ she said, noncommittal.

‘I’m afraid Mr Sackville’s wife was found dead in her apartment yesterday evening.’

If the woman was surprised she hid it well. Lambert had met professional poker players who gave away more signs of emotion. She didn’t reply so he continued talking. ‘At the moment we’re treating the death as suspicious,’ he said, unable to blank out the images of Moira Sackville tied to a chair, her pale body leaking blood into the pool of black liquid by her ankles.

‘Well okay, this is the first I’ve heard of it so you must be doing something right. I imagine you think Eustace is involved somehow or you wouldn’t be here. Am I correct?’

Lambert was stunned by the woman’s coldness. ‘Yes and no. We don’t want this being publicised at the moment so I do have to insist it stays off record before I tell you any more details.’

‘So you’re offering me an exclusive?’

‘Something like that, but I need you to wait before you run the story.’ Lambert had only been in the office for five minutes but already he could understand how the woman had reached her senior position in such a short space of time. She had a natural authority about her. A cool charisma which he imagined helped her control even the most hardened of hacks.

‘Give me all the details and we can decide on a time for release. But I’ll tell you now, I won’t wait any longer than twenty-four hours – especially seeing as one of my journalists is involved.’

‘Fine,’ said Lambert. He was surprised that the story had yet to leak anyway. He told her all the details about Moira Sackville’s murder. How Eustace had been present, cuffed to one of the chairs and made to watch.

‘Christ,’ said Mia, losing her composure for a split second. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He’s in hospital. We have a police officer with him.’