Cruel acts, p.13
Cruel Acts, page 13
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it won’t.’ An awkward smile. ‘I’m trying to think of something to persuade you.’
‘What do you want, Mr Lambert?’
‘I don’t know him.’ He winced. ‘That sounds so stupid, but it’s true. I want to ask you what you made of him. I want to know – well, I want to know if I’m wasting my time on him.’
I remembered what Whitlock had said about the long years where they hadn’t been in contact and how their relationship, such as it was, had been because of Kelly’s efforts. I knew Kelly Lambert was in his mid-twenties but he looked younger – boyish and vulnerable.
And none of that should have mattered to me. Yet I found myself saying, ‘We could get a coffee.’
‘That would be amazing.’
‘Well, you waited a long time.’
He grinned. ‘I didn’t like to say that in case you thought I was whining.’
‘How long were you standing around out here?’
‘Couple of hours.’
‘You should have come inside and asked for me.’ I put up my umbrella and held it so he could duck underneath it. He was shorter than me, which wasn’t all that unusual but there were men who minded it, a lot. He didn’t seem to care, trotting along beside me as we headed down the nearest side street. ‘I didn’t want to make it official. If that doesn’t cause you any problems, that is. I don’t want you to get in trouble.’
‘I’ll survive,’ I said, even as I was trying to think of somewhere we could go that no one from work would pass on the way home.
It was a small and bleak outpost of a coffee chain that I chose in the end, because it was surrounded by other, nicer places. The coffee (which I bought) tasted bitter but Kelly sipped it uncomplainingly. Despite the determinedly moody lighting I could see him better now. His eyes were dark like his father’s but that was where the resemblance ended: there was nothing like the knowing malice I’d seen in Stone’s face. He wasn’t handsome, at least to my eyes – the balance was off between his wide, high forehead and a narrow jaw that was dark with stubble. Still, there was something appealing about him. Curiosity had made me agree to the coffee but I would never have considered it if he had been less diffident or more demanding, I knew.
‘I can’t tell you anything about the investigation.’
‘I know, I know. Seth warned me not to ask you anything.’
‘He did, did he?’
‘He’s Leo’s lawyer.’
‘I know who you mean,’ I said. ‘I’m just surprised that he knew you were planning to speak to me.’
‘I checked with him first.’ He looked down at his coffee. ‘He said you’d say no, so it didn’t matter.’
‘Well, maybe I should have.’ I glanced behind me as the door opened on a gust of damp wind, but it was no one I knew.
‘I really, really appreciate this.’ He put out a hand and let it hover above my sleeve, not quite touching me. ‘Please don’t leave.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘I wasn’t sure. Sorry.’ He ducked his head, embarrassed again. ‘It’s weird sitting here with you. You want to lock my father up and I want to keep him out of prison.’
‘I want to make sure that the person who murdered several innocent young women goes to prison. If that’s your father, then yes, I am determined to put him behind bars for life.’
‘But it might not be.’ He looked up at me, eyes wide. ‘You’re saying it might not be.’
‘Don’t read too much into that,’ I cautioned. ‘I’m keeping an open mind but that means nothing except that I’m trained to look at all the lines of enquiry. We’re looking at all the evidence, not focusing on the bits that incriminate your father.’ And they’re weak enough so far, I didn’t add, but I thought it.
‘Look, I know Leo isn’t going to win any Dad of the Year competitions. I know he was involved in criminal activities of one sort or another for most of his adult life. And when he wasn’t, it was because he was banged up.’
‘He probably didn’t stop just because he was inside,’ I said, amused. ‘You’d be surprised what goes on in prisons.’
‘Leo’s told me some stories.’ He gulped coffee. ‘I don’t know how I would cope, being locked up. I don’t think I could stand it. I like my freedom. I’ve never even had a boss. I work for myself.’
‘I hear you’re a carpenter.’
‘I do custom stuff for a couple of builders and interior designers. Once you’ve got the reputation you’re never short of work. I make my own furniture too.’
‘Where do you do that?’
‘I’ve got a little workshop.’ He shrank in his seat, staring over my shoulder.
‘What is it?’
‘I thought I saw someone looking in at us. Someone from your office.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘Tall bloke. Big. Dark hair. You were sitting with him at the appeal.’
Fuck. Of course it was Derwent. By a super-human effort I didn’t look round. ‘Is he still there?’
‘N-no. I don’t think so.’ Kelly peered at the door, his face strained and pale. His coffee cup clattered as he set it back on the saucer. ‘Do you want to leave?’
‘Are you sure it was him?’ Clutching at straws. Derwent had left the office ten minutes before me and that meant nothing: he had a nose for trouble, and specifically getting me in it.
‘I can’t be absolutely sure. It looked like him.’ Kelly chewed his lip. ‘If you get hassle over this—’
‘Don’t worry. I can handle him,’ I lied. ‘Tell me about your father. How did you find him?’
‘My foster parents kept in touch with him over the years. Not a lot – he sent them a card now and then, at Christmas. If he was in prison there was nothing in it. If he was out, there’d be a fiver. He never sent anything for my birthday. I don’t think he knows when it is.’ Lambert spoke without self-pity. If it had hurt him, that was in the past.
‘Why did you want to contact him? He was in prison for GBH, wasn’t he? Did you know that?’
‘Yeah, I did.’ Lambert shrugged. ‘I know it’s bad but I just thought, well, that’s part of who he is but it’s not the whole story. And it wasn’t.’
‘Was he glad to hear from you?’
‘No.’ He laughed at that. ‘He was definitely not keen to see me. I had to apply to visit him and he said no the first few times.’
‘But you kept trying.’
‘You know my real mum died when I was a kid.’
‘I had heard something about that.’
‘They weren’t together. It was never going to be Leo who looked after me. I don’t mind that he didn’t step up, you know. It would have been hard, living with him. My mum and dad – my foster parents – they were really good to me. I had a decent life with them. They fostered a few of us. Lots of kids running around in the countryside. Running wild, mainly. I don’t remember all that much about how it was before – with my real mum – but it was rough. She didn’t cope too well. She drank too much and—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I feel sorry for her.’
‘Life is hard for some people.’
‘Yeah. That’s definitely true. I don’t think she had much luck, put it that way. In retrospect, her dying was the best thing that could have happened to me.’ He smiled, but it was tinged with bitterness. ‘Talk about survivor’s guilt.’
‘I can’t imagine how hard it was for you.’
‘It wasn’t that bad. I didn’t think about it a lot. I was busy. I was behind at school because I hadn’t really gone much before I was fostered. And then I started to learn woodwork and it was like someone put the lights on. It made me so happy, making something beautiful out of nothing much.’
‘It must be a great feeling. You’re lucky you can make a living doing something that makes you happy.’ Whatever that was like. I loved my job but there were days when all we seemed to achieve was increasing the sum of human misery, spreading the consequences of misguided acts to the partners, the sisters and brothers, the sons and daughters and parents of those we locked up. Lady Justice cut with a sharp and careless sword. ‘So what made you want to find your father?’
He ran a hand over his head. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I felt there was something missing. I wanted to see if there was good in Leo, you know? If someone was kind to him, like people were kind to me, if that would help.’
‘And did it?’
‘I thought it was working. He came out of prison and I got him set up in the house – cleaned the place up for him, bought him a microwave. I asked a couple of mates to give him a bit of work here and there. I couldn’t afford to support him but I wanted to give him a chance. He was lucky to have somewhere to live. It’s not that easy to find a flat for an ex-con – a lot of landlords won’t rent to them. I didn’t want him in a hostel or on the streets or he’d be back in prison inside the year. I thought if he was away from his old life he might be able to start again. I mean, it worked for me. But then again, I was just a kid.’ His whole face was crinkled with sincerity and I felt sorry for him, for his naivety in the face of his father’s darkness. It was a good thing he’d grown up far from Leo Stone’s influence, to flourish in a good-hearted, simple way. I knew DCI Whitlock had liked him and I did too.
Lambert was following his own train of thought. ‘I suppose it was my fault, really, wasn’t it? If he’d been around other people more he’d have had alibis for when the women disappeared.’
‘I don’t think you should take responsibility for anything that’s happened.’ Especially not if your father is a sociopathic monster. ‘You can’t second-guess what you did. You acted for the best, as far as you could. You couldn’t tell what the consequences would be.’
‘Do you think he did it?’ There it was, the open appeal. There was a vulnerability to Kelly Lambert that he didn’t seem to be able to hide, as if he didn’t realise that in the real world you couldn’t assume everyone was trustworthy or that they had your best interests at heart.
‘I can’t talk to you about the case.’
‘Please. I need to know. I don’t think the evidence is convincing but then I don’t want it to be.’ He gulped, fighting his emotions. ‘I would go to the end of the world for Leo if he’s innocent. But if he’s mugging me off—’
‘That’s not something I can say, either way.’
‘Look, drop the police officer thing for a moment and talk to me like a human. Please.’ He leaned towards me, his hands locked together, his eyes on my face. ‘What sort of impression did he make on you?’
‘I wouldn’t go to the end of the world for him, Kelly. But I’m not related to him.’ Thank God.
‘He doesn’t make a good first impression.’
I was fairly sure it would make no difference if I was allowed a second, third or fifteenth impression of Leo Stone.
A phone purred into life and I checked mine, remembering with a start that I had Derwent to worry about, if it had been him outside the door …
‘Hey.’ Kelly held up a finger to me as he listened to his phone. Hold on. ‘Yes. Yes, she’s here.’
And I really shouldn’t be. I started gathering my things, preparing to make an exit. Kelly held out the phone to me.
‘He wants a word with you.’
‘Who does?’
‘Seth.’
Not Leo Stone. The relief was enough to make me take the phone even though I couldn’t imagine what Taylor would want with me. I carried the phone and my belongings out to the relative quiet of the street.
‘Yes?’
‘DS Kerrigan. I misjudged you. I wasn’t expecting you to agree to talk to Kelly.’ Away from the intensity of his stare I was able to concentrate on his voice, which was low and pleasant.
‘He was persuasive.’
‘Kelly’s a nice guy.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Find out anything useful?’
‘You never know.’
‘That’s cagey.’
‘Don’t take it personally.’
‘I won’t.’
I was quite enjoying sparring with him. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why did Mr Stone want to meet with me?’
‘His life is in your hands. He was curious.’
‘About me.’
‘About the whole process. About whatever it is that you’re doing.’
‘He knows what we’re doing. We’re preparing for his retrial. You should be able to brief him on what that entails.’
‘He wanted to hear it from you. I think he thought he might be able to intimidate you, if I’m honest. I did try to discourage him.’
‘Not hard enough.’
‘Leo goes his own way. I just go along for the ride.’
‘I really doubt that.’
He laughed and I grinned to myself. The café door shut and I looked up to see Kelly Lambert, his hands in his pockets.
‘I’d better go.’
‘See you soon, Sergeant Kerrigan.’
I gave the phone back to Kelly. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ He had some trouble wedging it back into the pocket of his leather jacket and stopped to investigate. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten that was in there.’
That was a knife, a small one with a fat handle designed to fit in the user’s palm and a slender two-inch blade. It appeared in his hand like a magic trick. As a rule I didn’t like being around people with quick hands who carried cutting tools. I must have looked shocked because he paled.
‘Oh shit, it’s not illegal to carry it, is it?’
‘No. Not unless you’re intending to hurt someone with it.’
‘I wouldn’t get very far, I don’t think.’ He dug in his other pocket. ‘I was working on this while I was waiting for you. Here. You can keep it. The wood is walnut.’
It was a small owl, the features suggested rather than heavily carved. Lambert’s talent was evident in the way he’d worked with the grain of the wood, turning the natural shading into wings and a stippled chest that might as well have been feathers.
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘It’s what I do,’ he said simply.
I thought about saying I couldn’t take it, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Besides, it hardly counted as a bribe. ‘If you’re sure you don’t want it.’
‘I make thousands of things like that, for fun. I like giving them away.’
‘I’ll look after it.’
Kelly smiled, pleased, and sketched a salute before he turned away. I wondered if he’d got what he wanted from me, all the same. I wondered if I’d ever know what it was Leo Stone had been searching for.
I kept my fingers curled around the comforting weight of the owl, all the way home.
18
It was dark.
She had gone blind.
No, it was dark. There was a faint blue tone to the darkness, high up on the left. She strained her eyes to see it, to make sense of it.
It refused to become familiar.
Nor did she recognise the smell of the place: her nose full of cold, dusty, green air that was outside her experience. Nothing she could place. It smelled like a cellar, or an abandoned building – dank.
So, conclusion: she was somewhere she had never been before.
Except, that wasn’t a conclusion. That was only the start of it. There was the banging headache behind her eyes, and the dry mouth, and the raw feeling on her elbows and knees where the skin was grazed. Her hands felt bruised too, her fingers stiff as she traced a circle around herself on the ground, feeling rough wood, a splinter catching in her skin before she could pull her hand away.
The ache around her left ankle took some time to rise to the top of her list of discomforts but it got there eventually. She ran a hand down her leg and encountered something metal that was wrapped around her. A chain, with quite small links. A chain that was knotted somehow, and connected to something further away, so she couldn’t – she jerked her leg – free herself or move away because – another jerk – she was trapped.
That made no sense at all.
She pulled her hands back into her body and shut her eyes, as if withdrawing from the strange new world where she found herself would make it, in turn, recede.
Because she should have been at home, she thought.
She had been going home, she was sure of it.
She could have sworn she had walked through the door. But that could have been another time.
And this was not her home, nor anywhere like it.
Stubbornly, her mind refused to tell her what had happened. There was a fog in her brain, an impenetrable cloud that she was afraid to try to breach. Hidden in it was a world of terror, she suspected, and she wasn’t ready yet to confront it.
She could only barely cope with here and now.
She put out her left hand this time and touched something hard almost immediately: smooth plastic. A bucket, she realised after exploring it further, flipping the handle so it fell against the rim. The sound was so domestic, so safe, that she did it again. Beside that, she found a plastic container like a milk bottle. Liquid inside it swished when she tipped it. She spun the lid off and sniffed: no odour at all.
Water.
She drank some before she thought about whether that was wise or not. Persephone in Hades, eating pomegranate seeds, imprisoning herself for six months. How much time would a few gulps of water cost her?
More importantly, how long would the container have to last her?
The bucket.
The water.
The chain.
Fear was creeping around the edges of her mind. She leaned forward, patting the ground, until she found a third container. This was full of rectangular packets of something hard but brittle: muesli bars, she discovered, the kind you could eat instead of breakfast if you were running late and didn’t care too much about them tasting like old cardboard.
There were a lot of them, she realised, pawing through the container.
How many muesli bars could one woman eat?
