Dead Eyed (32 page)

But there was no time to hire a car. Campbell wanted him there alone and if it was his best chance to save Sarah May then he was prepared to take that risk. He punched the address into the satnav on his phone, and followed a route around the south circular.

Memories of the accident threatened to engulf him at every turn. If he let it, he knew his mind would play tricks on him. It would create visions of Chloe in the passenger seat, seatbelt on, kicking her legs in excitement as Daddy drove her through the night to her grandparents’ house. Lambert used a trick he’d learnt from the internet to keep the memories at bay. He took the images of that night and imagined placing them in a box, locking it tight with numerous unbreakable locks and chains. The psychologist he’d had to endure for the year following Chloe’s death would no doubt have said it was an unhealthy form of repression but he needed it to work now.

He turned his thoughts to Sarah May. He was sure she was still alive and this fuelled his urgency. He weaved through the traffic, getting used to the light controls of Sophie’s car. Soon he was in the backwaters of Surrey, his satnav guiding him through single-track lanes in the countryside. He passed the occasional house wondering how people could live in such solitude. He’d decided long ago he didn’t need to speak to people all the time but he liked having them around.

The ETA on the satnav stated he was two minutes away. He slowed the car preparing himself for whatever lay ahead. ‘You have reached your destination,’ said the electronic female voice. Before him was the entrance to a muddied lane. Twisted vines grew over unkempt bushes. It didn’t look as if there was enough space to manoeuvre the car through the narrow gap. He wanted to go by foot, not announce himself to Campbell. He drove three hundred yards further along the road until he found a small layby. He parked Sophie’s hatchback into the space, driving the left side of the car into thick brambles so there was enough space for other vehicles to drive by.

He switched off the car and thought about calling Tillman or Bardsley for backup. He considered the pros and cons, and decided Campbell would not tolerate such intrusion. It was only a hunch but it was all he had. The best chance of finding Sarah May alive depended on him going alone. It was pure instinct and instinct had served him well in the past.

He patted the gun in his inside jacket pocket and left the car. It was almost pitch black, no streetlights illuminating the night. Clouds blocked out the stars, and the odd drop of rain dripped onto Lambert’s head. He stopped a hundred yards from the lane spotting a hole in the bushes which lined the dirt road. He clambered beneath hoping to find a less obvious route to the house.

His jacket caught on a loose vine. It pulled at the material ripping the skin beneath. Lambert muttered under his breath as a brief wave of pain ran up the left side of his body and vanished, leaving only a dull ache in its wake.

The house was visible from the other side of the bushes. It was a derelict building swamped by trees and unkempt bushes. As he edged closer he made out the front garden. Overgrown grass darted upwards from chipped patio slates. Lambert saw a solitary light burning in one of the downstairs rooms.

A lone car sat in the driveway. A silver Mercedes, the one which had followed him from Bristol. Lambert crept along the pathway, using the downstairs light of the house as a guide. A gate separated the house from the woodland. The top of the gate was covered in a thick, slimy substance. Lambert pushed both hands down onto the gate and thrust himself over, landing with a squelch into a puddle of mud. He wiped the walking boots he’d bought for the journey on a grass verge, and pulled out the gun

He edged closer to the house, trying to keep to the shadows. The downstairs light was to his left. He waited for movement but nothing stirred. He pressed his body up against the house. The bricks were coated with lines of uneven stone which pulled at his jacket and skin. He moved towards the back of the house. A wood-panelled door led to a kitchen area.

Lambert pressed the handle and was surprised when the door opened. He edged into the kitchen and surveyed the room. He held the gun in front of him, cautious of any possible surprises. The kitchen lent weight to the argument that the house was uninhabitable. The air was ripe with the stench of mouldy food and something else, a bitter acrid smell.

He used his phone as a flashlight and scanned the kitchen. A puddle of vomit sat beneath the dining table. He edged closer and noticed a river of blood which flowed beneath the table surface, meandering towards the vomit.

Through the kitchen door he made out a beam of light which shone from a room at the end of the corridor. He listened but the house was silent save for the gentle hum of the light bulb. Lambert considered possible scenarios. If Campbell was in the room, he could be asleep, could be reading a book, or could be waiting for him. He tiptoed down the hallway towards the room and stopped a metre from the entrance.

He took a deep breath, and with a practised move swivelled his body into the room, his gun held out firm in front of him.

There had been a fourth possibility he hadn’t considered.

A man was waiting for him but wasn’t reading or sleeping. His broken body hung from a noose. A pool of excrement and urine dripped from his body onto the floor. With his gun still in front of him, Lambert walked around the body and peered up at the face. The man’s eyes were sealed shut. It was almost an exact replica of the pictures Lambert had seen of the deceased Samuel Burnham and Kwasi Olumide. The only difference this time being that in addition to the eyes, the man’s mouth was sealed shut as well.

Lambert was about to put his gun away, when a second figure entered the room carrying a sawn-off shotgun duly pointed in Lambert’s direction.

Lambert pointed the Glock at the man. ‘You are?’ asked Lambert.

The man held the shotgun steady. This was obviously not a new situation for him. ‘Why don’t you put your gun down and I’ll tell you?’

‘That’s not going to happen.’

They stood in silence for a time. ‘You’re Lambert,’ said the man.

‘And you are?’

The man didn’t answer.

‘What about him?’ asked Lambert.

‘That’s Lance,’ said the man.

Lambert kept his eyes focused on the man. He’d discharged a firearm on duty twice in his career. Once in America, and once when he’d rescued Tillman from his torturers. He had no issue in using it. He would have used it already. He was certain he could drop the man before he could use the shotgun, but he needed to know where Sarah May was being held.

The man retreated to the back wall. He took a seat on a frail-looking wooden chair, behind a small oval-shaped dining table. He kept the gun pointed at Lambert.

Lambert studied the man’s face. He placed him in his late fifties, early sixties. He had a fine covering of grey hair on his head, his face sprinkled with shards of silver stubble. His eyes were alert, intelligent. ‘Campbell?’ asked Lambert.

A flicker of surprise appeared on the man’s face, and disappeared in a flash.

‘If you put your gun down, we can sort something out,’ said Lambert.

‘Right,’ said the man, not moving a muscle. ‘This has no happy ending.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Tell me where Sarah May is and I promise we can sort something out.’

The man laughed. ‘I’m a bit long in the tooth for such horseshit, Mr Lambert.’

‘Is she alive?’

‘I believe so.’

‘What the fuck does that mean? Where is she, what have you done to her?’ Lambert gripped the gun tighter, willed himself not to use it.

‘You’re not in a position to negotiate, Mr Lambert.’

‘Let me appeal to your decency then. You don’t normally take females. I know many of your victims deserved to die.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Many were criminals. You went beyond what was necessary, but I can understand the natural justice aspect. But why Sarah May? What has she done to you?’

‘Nothing. I don’t think you really understand what this is all about.’

‘Why don’t you clear up things for me?’

Campbell had called the dead man Lance. The name didn’t register with Lambert. He hadn’t come across it in the investigation so far. The corpse dangled to his left, the sound of the rope creaking in the close confines of the room. ‘What about him?’

‘Lance?’

‘If you say so.’

‘A loose end.’

‘Why do you seal their eyes? Why Lance’s mouth?’

‘You need to look a bit harder,’ said the man, placing the shotgun beneath his chin.

Lambert stepped forward, his voice urgent. ‘What are you doing, Campbell? There’s no need for that. Where’s Sarah May, Campbell? Where the hell is she?’

For a split second, Campbell was confused, even a little scared.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, pulling the trigger.

Chapter 44

The sound of the shotgun reverberated in the small confines of the room. The bullet travelled through the top of Campbell’s head, tearing a hole in the roof, decorating the room with blood and matter.

Lambert froze on the spot, the sound of the gun still ringing in his ears. The sight of Campbell was enough to test the hardest of constitutions. Campbell’s head simply no longer existed. It had been blown into a thousand tiny fragments. In its place, the stump of his neck vomited blood like a volcano leaking the occasional burst of lava.

Lambert realised he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled, falling to his knees. He took shallow breaths, told himself he had to continue. He checked the man’s sodden clothing for any clue of Sarah May’s location. His pockets were empty, as were the pockets of the man he’d called Lance.

He couldn’t call it in yet, not with the gun on him. He made a frantic search of the house using a set of fragile aluminium step ladders to reach the attic. He covered every inch of the house then returned to his car and drove twenty miles to a hotel he’d passed on the journey there. He booked a room using a set of false ID he carried. Once in the room, he placed his gun and holster in the room’s safe. He showered and changed into a set of fresh clothes and cancelled the delayed email he’d prepared for Tillman. Ten minutes later, he returned to the car and drove back towards the crime scene and called Bardsley.

‘I think I’ve found Campbell,’ he said.

It wasn’t long before Campbell’s house was alive with activity. A line of police cars snaked down the narrow lane which led to the house. The crime scene was cordoned off as the SOCOs arrived.

Lambert waited outside as Bardsley supervised the crime scene officers.

‘This is foolhardy, even for you,’ said Bardsley when he returned. His former colleague was more animated than Lambert could remember, the thick tendons of his neck springing to attention. ‘What the hell were you thinking? You could have been killed.’

‘It was only a hunch, I didn’t want to bother you,’ said Lambert.

Bardsley eye’s opened wide to comical effect. ‘You didn’t want to bother me?’ he said, mimicking Lambert’s tone.

‘I had a tip from an informant. If I came to you every time I had a thought we’d never be off the phone to one other.’

‘Let me get this straight. You had a tip that this is where Campbell lives, Campbell being the only link we have between two mass murderers, and you thought you’d come alone with absolutely no backup. What were you expecting to find?’

‘I was hoping to find Sarah,’ said Lambert.

‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ he repeated.

Lambert shrugged his shoulders.

‘Fuck me. Why didn’t Campbell shoot you?’

‘Would that have made you happier?’ said Lambert.

‘Jesus Christ, Mike. I should arrest you, you know. Nielson warned you not to interfere. He’s on his way over, by the way.’

‘If I hadn’t interfered, Josh, we’d never have found his body. Have you had any luck identifying either of them?’

‘No. No forms of ID in the house as of yet. We’ve taken some photos of their faces but we don’t hold many snapshots of people with their eyes and mouth sealed shut, or their faces obliterated by a shotgun.’

‘I don’t think Campbell is the killer,’ said Lambert.

Bardsley paused. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘He was scared. I asked about Sarah May and he acted confused, and as you said, why didn’t he shoot me and escape? He was resigned, as if he’d had enough. As if he was scared.’

‘You came here unarmed?’ asked Bardsley.

‘Of course. May’s not here, and time’s running out, Josh.’

Bardsley sighed. ‘Don’t leave,’ he said, moving to a group of officers who’d returned from the woodland to the side of the house.

DCI Nielson appeared, a number of colleagues in tow. The man glared at Lambert as if he was to blame for the atrocities he’d discovered in the house.

Lambert refused to speak to him. Bardsley took an official statement. ‘You’re the only one who’s seen Campbell’s face,’ he said.

‘You want me to scan the database?’ asked Lambert.

‘It would be helpful. Get to the station and we can get to work. We have a facial recognition expert.’

‘Fancy.’

Bardsley let him leave four hours later. Nielson had insisted that his car was checked over before leaving, Lambert relieved to have taken the gun back to the hotel.

Lambert’s vision began to blur as he drove the short distance to the hotel. He reached the place in time and collapsed asleep on the bed seconds after checking the safe for the weapon. He slept for three hours, his dreams peppered with images of Billy Nolan and Terrence Haydon, eyes missing, vague inscriptions on their bodies. The victim from earlier that evening, hanging from the rafters, his mouth sealed shut locked in an internal scream and Campbell, taking the shotgun to his mouth, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

Chapter 45

Lambert rushed through a breakfast of coffee and toast, and drove to Lewisham where a joint incident room had been set up. The night had clarified his thoughts. Campbell wasn’t the Souljacker. At least not the only one. He was part of a team, and Lambert had an idea who led the cabal.

He parked a mile away and walked to the police station. The cold air bit at his skin as he called Klatzky, leaving a message warning him to go into hiding, and to call him as soon as possible.