that was a waste of time,’ said Kennedy, outside.
‘Nothing is a waste of time. We know now she didn’t socialise much with her colleagues. She loved books. Eustace was researching the local area. Any of those points may become relevant.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Kennedy, who was almost hopping on the spot with eagerness to get away.
Lambert paused. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’
Kennedy opened her mouth then shut it.
‘See you seven a.m. tomorrow morning.’
Kennedy frowned. ‘Sir,’ she said, sticking her hand out for a passing taxi.
Lambert caught a taxi home, too tired for public transport. Home was currently a bedsit in Lewisham. Sophie was keeping the house for the time being until they had formalised details of the separation. A wave of dampness and festering mould overcame him as he opened the communal front door. He could almost see the trapped hot air escape through the front door. He hauled his tired body up the stairs to his room, telling himself that it was only temporary.
His room was oppressive. Although he’d left his window on the latch, his room was still stifling. He opened the window fully and allowed the minuscule breeze to cool him. A thousand thoughts played in his mind. He needed time to collate, analyse, and organise them as was his way, but first he needed to rest. His sleep pattern had never been normal, but now it was destroyed. He’d last slept late yesterday evening on the cold bench at the hospital. The lights had appeared then but despite his tiredness he didn’t think he would hallucinate tonight.
He made a red bush tea, sat on the room’s sole chair and listened to Andy Shauf singing about falling asleep. He tried to attack each raging thought one at a time, but the images of the last twenty-four hours swam in his head in a grotesque collage: Moira Sackville’s crime scene, Eustace Sackville alone and distraught in a hospital bed, Sophie and the new baby, Matilda Kennedy setting off for an evening out. He imagined Sarah May was in London, wished that he could just call her and she would appear.
He undressed, and climbed into bed, his thoughts returning to Eustace Sackville. He thought about what the man had been through, the death of his only family, and tried to think about how he must be feeling alone in his hospital bed. Then his thoughts moved on to Sophie and the new baby; how Chloe’s sister would never be part of his life, and he realised his and Eustace Sackville’s situation were not that different.
She realised it was a mistake. She realised every time she did it. She’d half hoped last night that Lambert would have asked her to work later so she could have avoided it.
She walked naked into the bathroom and switched on the shower. She searched through the cabinets but found only the most rudimentary of toiletries. It was unprofessional in more ways than one. She’d known from the moment she’d changed into the green dress, which had even received a note of assent from Lambert, that she would end up staying the night here. Yet she hadn’t even brought a change of clothes. Now she would have to go home and change. She turned off the shower, returned to the bedroom and put on her clothes.
Tillman sat up in bed and looked at her. ‘Leaving already?’
‘Lambert’s scheduled a meeting for seven and I can hardly turn up in last night’s clothes.’ Her tone was short, and summed up their relationship. The nights of passion, followed by the mornings of regret. Tillman was barely covered by a thin sheet. She surveyed him as she dressed, intrigued by the vastness of his pale body. His large figure at once overweight but muscled, far from her normal choice in men. She was sleeping with the boss, something she’d always secretly belittled other women for doing, but there was something about the man which drew her in.
Tillman rubbed his eyes. For a moment, she thought he was going to say something ridiculous, like she should leave some clothes at this place. ‘I’ll see you there,’ he said, rolling over on his side. She fought a wave of desire and left.
She drove home, the evidence of last night’s excesses seeping through her pores. She needed food and coffee. At home, she ran the coffee maker and showered again – dousing herself in shower gel and shampoo, scrubbing her teeth clean with an evangelical zeal. She toasted a bagel, and burnt her throat washing it down with the scalding coffee.
Devlin greeted her as she walked into the incident room five minutes early. ‘Sarge, a Mrs Levinson called last night. She wants to speak to you. Something she forgot to mention yesterday, she said.’
Kennedy nodded, taking the note from him. She sat at her desk, glancing at Lambert who had seemingly not noticed her arrival.
‘Right, let’s get on with this,’ said Lambert, getting to his feet. He was dressed in a suit she hadn’t seen before. He looked surprisingly fresh, clean shaven, and bright eyed, as if he’d had a good night’s rest. He handed out duties with almost military-like precision. He ordered a re-examination of the CCTV footage, checked that the Whitfield lead was being followed up, and instructed two of the team to start trawling through Eustace Sackville’s past newspaper stories. ‘Anything, however minor, that stands out – then notify me immediately,’ he said.
The meeting lasted less than twenty minutes.
‘Good night?’ he said to Matilda, after everyone had left the conference room. His eyebrows arched high, giving him a comical look.
‘It was fine, thank you,’ she replied, deadpan. She told him she planned to see Levinson again that morning.
‘Okay. I want you to visit Sackville after you’ve seen her. See if you can get anything from him. Maybe he’ll open up to you. Try to find out some more about his article research and his relationship to the Blake family. I’m planning to see Blake today. And push him some more on Robinson.’
Matilda hesitated. ‘You’re going to see Blake alone?’
Lambert faltered. She thought she saw something in him she hadn’t seen before. It was as if he’d let his guard slip for a second. ‘I think I’ll be safe. Keep me updated on what the librarian says.’
Sandra Levinson was prowling the non-fiction floor of the library when Matilda arrived. Matilda watched her from a distance, taken once more by the woman’s beauty: the perfect symmetry of her face, and the elegant grace of her body. It was no exaggeration to suggest that the woman could have made a career in modelling.
As if she’d known Matilda had been watching her all this time, the librarian turned to face her in a slow drawn out movement. Her face broke into a smile on seeing Matilda, the faintest of lines appearing to the side of her eyes. ‘Sergeant Kennedy, hello.’ She carried an edition of A Room of One’s Own, which she placed back on one of the bookshelves. ‘Could I buy you a coffee? I’m dying for a hit of caffeine. There’s a lovely little café down the road.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Matilda.
Matilda noticed the appreciative looks Levinson received as they walked down Lordship Lane, as if she was accompanying someone famous. The woman either didn’t notice the stares, or was so used to them she didn’t bother commenting. ‘Let’s sit outside, what can I get you?’
‘Let me,’ said Matilda.
‘Don’t be silly, I insist.’
Matilda
