Dead Lucky - Matt Brolly

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his hands together, his eyes darting upwards. ‘About a year ago.’

      ‘A year? You’re sure?’

      ‘Approximately, yes. I decided to end it. I’m afraid it had started to become quite tiresome.’

      ‘And how did Mrs Sackville respond to this news?’ asked Lambert.

      ‘She was distraught. I received the odd phone call. Tears, that sort of thing, but I am sure she got over it.’

      Lambert thought about what Kennedy had told him. The S and M Prue McKenzie had reluctantly detailed. ‘No one is morally judging you, Mr Robinson. Our concern is to track Moira’s killer. I’m afraid the crime scene was not a pleasant one.’

      Robinson took in a number of shallow breaths. ‘Do I really need to hear this?’

      ‘I’ll only go into as much details as necessary. There was a home invasion. Mrs Sackville was handcuffed to a chair,’ said Lambert.

      Robinson put his hand to his mouth. As a criminal barrister he would have heard much worse, as a defence barrister would have defended those accused of such acts. Either it was a show, or he was genuinely distressed by his lover’s death. ‘We believe the intruder cut open her wrists and that Mrs Sackville slowly bled to death.’

      ‘Slowly?’ said Robinson, his voice a squawk of anguish.

      Lambert stared at the man, searching for any clues that he was play acting.

      ‘Eustace?’ said Robinson.

      Lambert glanced at Matilda, her face impassive. ‘He was made to watch.’

      ‘He wasn’t hurt?’

      ‘He was cuffed to a chair as well.’

      Robinson turned his attention towards the ceiling, seemingly picturing the scene. ‘They let him go?’

      ‘They?’ said Matilda.

      ‘Him, her, them?’

      ‘Mr Sackville confirmed there was just the one intruder,’ said Lambert.

      ‘Why did they hurt Moira, and not Eustace?’ Robinson was more focused, quizzing them as if they were on trial.

      ‘That’s what we need to find out. Mr Robinson, this is a delicate matter but can you elaborate on your relationship with Moira Sackville?’

      ‘Elaborate?’

      Lambert hesitated, thinking how best to broach the subject, when Matilda interjected. ‘Did you and Mrs Sackville engage in any unusual sexual practices?’

      Robinson flushed red. Lambert initially thought he was embarrassed but soon realised it was something else.

      ‘And how the hell is that any of your business?’ he asked, his booming voice heavily accented.

      ‘It links in with our investigation,’ said Matilda, unmoved by the barrister’s protestations.

      ‘Links in with your investigation? Why, because she was tied to a chair?’

      ‘Cuffed,’ said Lambert.

      ‘What a tenuous, flimsy link! Who told you this?’ said Robinson, the answer dawning on him. ‘Prue McKenzie, what a surprise. I knew Moira would tell her, though I warned her not to, judgemental and no discretion.’

      ‘I thought you were good friends with Mrs McKenzie?’ said Kennedy.

      Lambert was struck at how quickly Robinson had unravelled. He’d revealed more of himself in the last thirty seconds than he had throughout the rest of the interview.

      ‘No one is good friends with her, except maybe Moira.’ He shook his head, as if he’d forgotten about the death of his lover. ‘You think she does all that charity work for the good causes? Don’t make me laugh. It’s all a show, a way to ingratiate herself. I bet she never puts a penny in out of her own pocket, just uses the money raised to buy the fancy caterers and party planners so she can look good amongst her friends.’

      ‘But she introduced you?’ said Lambert, keen to exploit Robinson in his emotional state.

      ‘Not really. We were both at one of her parties and we met. We introduced ourselves.’ His face was still red, his breathing laboured. He sat back in his chair, the colour draining from his face. ‘I’m not going to discuss what we did. I won’t let you sully her memory.’

      Lambert nodded. ‘I will need a note of your whereabouts last night.’

      Robinson’s eyes widened as he adopted a sardonic tone. ‘It’s always a pleasure helping you guys out. I was at an Inn’s dinner. I was there till gone midnight. I ordered a taxi. Latchford will give you the number of the firm we use so you can check with the driver.’

      Robinson stood, giving Lambert and Kennedy their cue to do the same. ‘Listen, I’m sorry if I lost my temper,’ said Robinson, to Kennedy in particular. ‘I will assist in any way I can.’ Lambert was intrigued by the barrister’s sudden changes in behaviour. The news of Moira’s death had clearly affected him.

      It was raining as they left the chambers; a sudden downpour had reached the drains, leaving a faint sulphurous odour in the air. ‘Verify what he told us,’ said Lambert, as he heard a shout from behind him.

      The figure of Charles Robinson jogged towards them, his face flushed from the exertion. ‘I remembered something,’ he said, his breath coming in rapid bursts between words. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing but thought you should know. A former client of mine used the same MO, similar at least, to what you’ve just told me.’

      Lambert didn’t respond. He took out his notebook, waited for Robinson to reveal himself.

      ‘Obviously, I can’t tell you anything confidential but it reached the court. May I?’ he said, looking at Lambert’s notepad.

      Lambert handed it over and Robinson scribbled some words onto the paper. ‘You’ll find everything there,’ said Robinson, writing R v. Whitfield CJ (2008) on the piece of paper.

      ‘You represented Whitfield?’ asked Lambert.

      Robinson nodded.

      ‘Verdict?’

      Robinson pursed his lips. ‘Not guilty.’

      They watched Robinson walking back towards chambers.

      ‘He looks worried,’ said Kennedy.

      ‘Perhaps. Go back and read through the case, and everything we have on it. Call me when you have some details and we can decide if it’s worth pursuing.’

      ‘You don’t think it will be?’

      ‘It would be convenient, but let’s see. I’m going to visit Eustace again. I want to know if he knew about Robinson, and what he’s been working on lately.’

      ‘I have an appointment with the head librarian from Moira’s library. I postponed the meeting after McKenzie’s revelations about Charles Robinson.’

      ‘Good. You should have time to check the case first, or get someone else on it so we at least have a summary.’

      Lambert caught the tube back to the hospital. He rarely used cars if he could help it and in central London it was usually quicker getting about by public transport. He thought about Robinson’s changing personalities. The sadness he’d expressed on learning of Moira’s death, followed by the anger at the insinuation he’d read into Kennedy’s questions. He saw the case opening up before him, strand after strand branching out into infinite possibilities. He wanted a working theory but so far it was evading him. He hoped that Moira’s death was personal. That way it would be easier to find the killer. If it was random, which seemed unlikely, they would have to rely on the killer having made a mistake.

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