LITMIR.BIZ

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eating lunch in a small Italian off Lordship Lane, he called Sarah.

      ‘DCI May.’

      ‘Very formal,’ said Lambert.

      ‘I just like the way it sounds. How are you, stranger?’

      ‘I’m well. Thought I’d check in, see if you remember me, that sort of thing.’ The lunch had energised him and despite the stress of the case he felt momentarily optimistic, sitting in the sunshine, nursing an espresso, speaking to Sarah.

      DCI Sarah May had been the SIO on the Souljacker case and they had ended up working together, albeit unofficially. They had become close after the case, and Lambert had spent some time at her flat in Bristol before returning to London. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed hearing her voice.

      ‘You can call me any time, Michael, you know that. You don’t need an excuse.’

      ‘So what are you working on?’ said Lambert, changing the subject.

      ‘Same. We keep finding bodies.’ She was referring to the legacy of the Souljacker. Following his death, a book was published electronically releasing the details of a number of murders. May had been tasked with following up and had so far discovered four unmarked graves. ‘What about you, still on the drugs case?’

      ‘No, I’ve been promoted. I’m heading up a murder investigation.’

      ‘Look at you, back to your old ways.’

      Lambert outlined the case, keeping the detail confidential.

      ‘Some promising leads,’ said May. ‘You think it’s a one-off?’

      ‘I suppose it comes down to motive. If he was after her for some reason then it might end here. Don’t know yet.’

      ‘Well, let me know if you need any help,’ said May, a mischievous lilt to her voice.

      They were skirting around the real issue. He’d returned to London to start work, and there had been no resolution about their relationship. They’d promised to keep in touch, to visit, but nothing more definite. He would have loved to see her, but they were both too busy.

      There was also something else pressing on him, which he blurted out. ‘Sophie’s had the baby.’

      Sarah didn’t respond and he thought for a second the line had been cut. ‘Ah,’ she said, eventually. ‘When?’

      ‘Three days ago. They’ve had to keep her in for some checks. There were some difficulties but she should be going home today. Sorry, Sarah, I should have told you before.’

      ‘Don’t be silly. How is she? How are you?’

      ‘She’s fine. The baby is called Jane.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say the words, Jane Chloe.

      ‘How are you, Michael?’ said Sarah, insistent.

      ‘I’m okay. It’s a bit surreal. Look, I can’t talk about it at the moment.’

      ‘I’ll come down,’ said Sarah.

      Lambert snorted, his pulse quickening. ‘You’re coming to rescue me?’

      Sarah laughed down the line, the melodic sound sending waves of feeling through him. ‘Yes. You’re all alone, and Sophie has this new baby, and…’

      He cut her off. ‘I have the case. I’ll be fine. When we have some more time we can get together. It would be good to see you.’

      ‘Smooth talker.’ She hesitated. ‘You know I should come. But fine. Call me when you need to.’

      ‘I know. Look, I’d better go. Duty calls.’

      ‘Look after yourself.’

      ‘You too.’

      He braced himself for seeing Sophie and the baby as he entered the hospital. It was possible they were still both upstairs in the maternity ward but he couldn’t bring himself to find out, unsure if it was his place any more.

      The rush of adrenaline from speaking to Sarah had faded, and he realised how tired he was. He bought another coffee from the hospital outlet, and headed towards the secure area where Sackville was being treated.

      Nervous guy had left, and a WPC had joined the young DC Shah. Lambert didn’t bother with introductions. ‘Update?’

      ‘A few coming and goings,’ said Shah, handing him a report sheet. ‘Nurses, food, Dr Patel, and a psychiatrist, Dr Byatt. They want to discharge him, sir.’

      Lambert entered the room. Sackville was sitting up in bed watching daytime television. ‘You’re feeling better I hear?’

      Sackville lifted his head. He looked worse than yesterday, his pale skin mottled and blotchy, his eyes sunken and lifeless. Lambert didn’t envy the man. He had no family left, and his career was fading. The rest of his life would be haunted by memories of his wife’s murder. All the counselling in the world wouldn’t change that.

      ‘You remember our conversation yesterday?’

      ‘They called it an interrogation in the war,’ said Sackville, a crack of a smile appearing on his face.

      ‘May I?’ said Lambert, taking a seat. ‘Sorry about that, I needed as much information as possible.’

      ‘Have you told Prue?’

      ‘Yes. I’ve also spoken to your editor.’

      ‘I know.’ Sackville pointed to a bouquet in the corner of the room.

      ‘Your editor’s young.’

      ‘Mia? Young in age maybe, but she has an old soul. An old, deathless soul.’

      ‘Yes, she seemed happy go lucky,’ said Lambert, sharing the joke. ‘She mentioned you‘re working on something at the moment but wouldn’t go into much detail.’

      ‘Don’t get her started on journalistic sources, though I have to say I agree with her. Why did you want to know?’

      ‘We have to look at all angles, obviously. Mia mentioned you’ve been investigating the Blake family.’

      Sackville’s face dropped. ‘What did you give her for that, an exclusive?’

      ‘She didn’t reveal anything. Told me to speak to you directly if I wanted any details.’

      ‘I’ve been investigating Curtis Blake on and off all my life.’

      ‘Mia mentioned something about people trafficking. Blake updating his empire?’

      ‘She hasn’t quite grasped it, and I’m afraid there isn’t much of a story.’

      ‘Who is he working with?’

      ‘Listen, I don’t like Curtis Blake, and I don’t respect him. In fact, I despise what he does and what he’s done.’

      ‘But?’

      ‘Some of these new guys. They have no boundaries. You must know that?’

      Lambert had seen many things he wished he hadn’t over the years. As far as he was concerned, there had never been any boundaries for the majority of people he’d dealt with. The notion of the idealistic British criminal was the stuff of fiction. He was sure Eustace knew that as well as he did. ‘Justice is blind, Eustace. If they’re wrong, they’re wrong.’

      ‘There are degrees of wrongness, as you well know.’

      ‘You’re going to have to be more specific.’

      Sackville adjusted the pillows on his bed. ‘I need to get out of here. You name it – the people smuggling, trafficking, the mindless violence. The more I see, the worse it is.’

      ‘It’s always been that way, Eustace. Tell me what you know. Who do you have details on, who would want to do this to Moira?’

      ‘You

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