newspaper, and the file he had compiled on the Souljacker murders. There was still nothing from May on his phone. The conductor approached and Lambert purchased a return ticket for Klatzky with his credit card.
Klatzky snored himself awake as the train pulled into Swindon. His body spasmed, his head cracking against the underside of the table with a thud. Lambert tried not to laugh as the man composed himself.
‘How long have I been asleep?’ said Klatzky, rubbing his head.
‘Fifty minutes or so.’
Klatzky dusted himself down, his aged leather jacket creaking at each movement. He shuffled himself into position, sitting opposite Lambert. A waft of pungent air drifted across the table.
‘Your ticket,’ said Lambert.
‘Thanks, I’ll pay you back.’
Lambert stopped the woman pushing a drinks trolley down the aisle of the carriage.
‘Coffee,’ groaned Klatzky.
‘Make that two,’ said Lambert. They sat for a while in silence. Klatzky wincing as he took the occasional sip of coffee.
‘What happened to us eh, Mikey?’ said Klatzky a few minutes later.
Lambert was reading one of the three books he’d brought with him, a mostly useless textbook on lucid sleeping. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you remember those train journeys we used to take to Bristol on our way to University? We’d be half cut by now.’
‘You are half cut.’
‘Maybe,’ said Klatzky. ‘What happened to you, anyway? You were so happy go lucky then. You didn’t take anything seriously, not even your degree. Now look at you.’
‘That was twenty years ago, Simon.’ Lambert linked his hands together and rested his chin on them, staring at Klatzky.
In response, Klatzky leant towards him. Pointing his finger, he said, ‘We all grow up, Michael, but you changed. You’ve changed intrinsically as a person.’
Lambert laughed, but felt his facial muscles tighten as his face reddened. ‘Intrinsically? What are you talking about, Simon?
Klatzky slumped back in his seat. ‘If you don’t know what I’m talking about then there’s no point in explaining,’ he said. He drank the last of his coffee, screwing his eyes shut as he downed the dregs.
Lambert thought about continuing the bizarre argument, realising it was pointless arguing with Klatzky when he was in this mood. He opened his newspaper and spent the rest of the journey skimming through the despairing stories, his thoughts constantly returning to the file in his jacket pocket and what it all meant. At face value, it didn’t make much sense. Serial killers like the Souljacker didn’t just take eighteen years off between killings. If it was the same killer then there must have been a reason for the killer to have stopped in the first place, and more importantly a catalyst which had propelled him back to work.
Once in Bristol, they ordered breakfast at a small greasy spoon café outside Temple Meads station. Klatzky’s head drooped as they waited for their orders, his hangover clearly reaching its peak.
A teenage girl in a pink apron placed their breakfasts on the table. She grinned, the white of her teeth obscured by a thick metal brace. Piling his fork with a mixture of sausage, bacon and egg, Klatzky perked up. With his mouth half full he mumbled, ‘So what are our plans for today?’
‘Well, I plan to go to the University and have a look at our old halls of residence. And if I haven’t heard back from her I’m going to call the lead investigator on the case.’
‘Are we going to get a hotel?’ asked Klatzky, slicing through an egg yolk smothered in ketchup.
‘No, I want to be out of this place by the end of the day.’
‘Oh come on, Mikey, we could visit some old haunts. For old times’ sake.’
Lambert turned his face to the side, stretching his neck muscles. ‘It’s not a jolly, Simon. You asked me to help. This is work for me.’ He already regretted allowing Klatzky to accompany him on the journey, and sensed things were only going to get worse.
Klatzky returned to his breakfast, sulking like a scolded child. ‘I was thinking of calling the others,’ he said, a couple of minutes later. He finished his breakfast, wiping his plate clean with a thin slice of white bread. He looked Lambert in the eyes for the first time since they’d left the train.
‘That’s not a good idea,’ said Lambert.
‘Why not? We haven’t all been together for years,’ said Klatzky.
There had been six of them in their group. They’d spent their three years at University together as the tightest of cliques, all deciding to reapply for halls in the third year. ‘There’s a reason for that, Simon.’ Lambert placed some money on the table and left the café before Klatzky could argue further.
Over the years, Klatzky had been the only one who had tried to keep the group together. There had been the occasional impromptu reunion every few months after they’d graduated but the get-togethers had never been successful. They would initially start off well but after a few drinks it always became apparent that everyone was avoiding talking about Billy Nolan; it would reach the point where someone would mention his name just to break the tension.
Then the bad memories would return and the drinking would intensify until everyone reached a state of maudlin drunkenness which would occasionally descend into bouts of violence.
The others had all managed to put the Nolan incident behind them to one extent or another. Lambert knew getting the group together again would only reignite bad memories.
They caught a taxi from the long line of black cabs outside the station. ‘You’re a bit young to be students,’ said the rotund taxi driver, after being told their destination.
‘We’re alumni,’ said Lambert, his tone suggesting that all forms of communication between the driver and his two passengers should now cease. Lambert had only returned to Bristol occasionally over the last eighteen years, mainly for work. The city had transformed in that time but the changes had been gradual. Lambert couldn’t date any of the buildings. It was only when the taxi pulled up outside their destination that he felt a stab of nostalgia. Klatzky was almost tearful as they left the car.
‘Can’t you feel it in your bones, Mikey?’ he said, stretching his arms out as if he wanted to embrace the building.
Memories came to Lambert. Glimpsed images of the numerous nights out he’d enjoyed with his friends, of the girls he’d kissed, each memory tainted with the image of Billy Nolan, dead in his room.
Inside, Lambert had to produce his old warrant card before the grey-haired man behind the security desk would allow them entry into their old hall of residence. They took the unsteady lift to the fifth floor, Lambert enduring the odour which resulted from Klatzky’s lack of personal hygiene. ‘When did you last shower?’
‘I was out all night before I met you at Paddington.’
‘Of course you were,’ said Lambert. Lambert had yet
