‘He was in halls with us? What floor was he on?’
‘Floor six. Some people called him Mad Terry?’
‘Don’t remember him. What’s this to do with Michael?’
‘Oh, nothing directly.’
Siobhan placed her hands in her lap. ‘You can’t think he has anything to do with it? That would be ridiculous.’
May leant forward, catching a waft of antiseptic from the corridor. ‘No, of course not. We’re examining all the connections in the two cases. And obviously Michael knew Billy very well. Did you know Michael’s other friends?’
Siobhan relaxed, her shoulders dropping. ‘Yeah, there was a gang of them.’
‘What were they like as a group?’
‘They were nice enough guys. They basically liked to drink and go with girls, like all boys that age.’
‘Remember Simon Klatzky?’
Siobhan pursed her lips. ‘He was hot,’ she said, giggling. ‘God, listen to me. Yeah, he was good friends with Michael. We’d all go out as a gang sometimes. I think he was really close with Billy. From what I heard it hit him really hard as well.’
May thought about the photo of Klatzky she’d posted on the whiteboard, the hard life he’d had since leaving University. ‘Was there any trouble amongst them as a group? Any fights, things like that?’
‘There were the odd fallings out but nothing significant. They all got on really well.’
‘Well, thanks for your time, Siobhan. It’s been much appreciated. As I said it’s a routine thing.’
Siobhan had grown in confidence during the meeting. Her eyes were more focused. As they both stood, she asked, ‘So when did you see Michael?’
May noted the keen interest in the question, was surprised that the inquiry made her bristle. ‘He’s in Bristol at the moment. I met him today.’
‘What’s he like now?’
‘Yeah, he seems really nice. What happened to you guys after University?’
Siobhan walked her to the hospital elevator. ‘We met up once. He came to stay with me at my parents’ house for a week. He decided to go travelling for a year.’
‘And you didn’t want to go with him?’
‘We talked about it. I had another year at University as I was studying for my Masters. We said we’d stay in touch,’ said Siobhan. ‘But we never did.’
Back at the station, May changed into her running gear, skin-tight running trousers and a fluorescent yellow jacket. She thought about the touch of melancholy in Siobhan’s voice as she recalled not staying in touch with Lambert, and briefly regretted that no one from her past could provoke the same reaction in her. She tied up her running shoes, pulling the laces tight until it squeezed her feet and left the locker room.
As she left the changing room one of the uniforms, a constable by the name of Bickley, laughed. ‘Shit, I’m deaf,’ he said, pretending to shield his ears from the loudness of May’s jacket.
‘Very amusing. Better safe than sorry, don’t you think, Constable?’ she said, playing along.
‘No one’s going to miss you, that’s for sure, ma’am.’
May tried to run at least three times a week. It was five miles from the station to the house she shared with her father. He had moved in with her three years ago following the death of her mother. She couldn’t face him living alone, and they’d managed to make the living arrangements work.
Approaching rush hour, the roads next to the station were gridlocked with traffic. She started at a steady pace, her breathing increasing as she upped her pace. She noticed admiring glances as she ran but kept her eyes straight on the road ahead. Running gave her time to think. She never wore earphones like some of the other runners. She liked the sound of the world moving by, the rush of the air as she pounded the pavement.
It had been five days now since she’d been put in charge of the Souljacker case. Superintendent Rush had yet to apply any firm pressure. If it was the same killer, then it was the tenth victim in twenty-three years and although no one had come close to catching the killer, something about the way things were unfolding told her things were different this time. The link between Haydon and Nolan was crucial and in addition it was conceivable that lack of practice had made the killer sloppy. Seven different strands of unidentified DNA had been found at Haydon’s flat, but only one strain on the corpse. It had been found in Haydon’s hair but nowhere else in the house.
Now all they needed was a suspect to match the DNA on Haydon’s body. The thought drove her on, her pace increasing as additional adrenalin pumped into her bloodstream.
She started to tire four miles into the journey. Her legs filled with lactic acid as she tried to maintain her pace. It was unusual for her but not unexpected. She’d hardly slept since she’d been assigned to the case and her diet had been awful, cheap takeaways for breakfast, lunch and dinner. She needed an early night, a chance to clear her head but she’d suggested meeting Lambert later that evening. It had sounded like a good idea at the time but she was beginning to regret her decision. It had been impulsive, and if any of her previous staff appraisals were anything to go by, impulsiveness was her one major character flaw. It had led her into trouble more than once, both personally and professionally.
She pushed through the pain in her legs and increased her pace for the last mile. She liked to sprint the last few hundred metres home. She enjoyed the sensation of her body working at full throttle, everything pulling together, driving her forward. She reached the gates to her house and clicked her stopwatch. With her hands behind her head, she leant forward, her open mouth sucking air into her lungs.
‘Good time?’ asked her father as she opened the front door. He held a glass of red wine in one hand, the crossword section of the newspaper in the other.
‘It wasn’t a personal best,’ said May, her breathing returning to normal.
Her father went to reply. She could tell by the way he looked at her jacket that he was about to unleash some quip about the brightness of the material. He thought better of it, knowing her humour wasn’t at its highest at the end of a long run.
She read a few more chapters of Blood Kill before showering, and found herself relating more and more with the protagonist of the story. She sensed the man’s anguish as he searched for the killer of the blind girl and wondered if the real life Hastings would be similar to his fictional counterpart. Hastings had stipulated a meeting time of seven a.m. for tomorrow which had destroyed her plan of a good night’s sleep.
It was too late to cancel Lambert now. Anyway, she wanted to talk to him. He’d visited Sandra Vernon, and subsequently the minister of their small church, despite agreeing not to pursue his own investigation. She had to show him she should be taken seriously. What better way to do so than by going out for dinner with him, she thought ruefully.
She tried on a number of dresses before finding the perfect balance, a standard long-sleeve black dress which stretched below her knees. She scrubbed up well in the mirror but didn’t want Lambert to get the wrong idea.
She
