Matt Brolly - Dead Lucky

Lambert caught the tube and arrived in Holborn before Kennedy. He waited for her in a coffee shop chain close to Holborn station.

He was halfway through his drink when she arrived. She nodded over and gestured with her hand, enquiring if he wanted another drink.

‘You looked pleased with yourself,’ he said, noting the spring in her walk as she approached.

‘It happens occasionally. How was your meeting with the editor?’

‘Unproductive. I think we can safely say the case is newsworthy now.’

Kennedy swept a loose strand of hair from her face. ‘That’ll please Tillman,’ she said.

‘Can’t be helped.’ The idea that they withhold details of the case from the press was ludicrous, considering the profession of Moira’s husband. ‘What do we know about this Charles Robinson?’

‘I’ve done a bit of research. Criminal defence work mainly, started his career working for the CPS.’

‘What do we know of his extracurricular appetites, other than those described by Mrs McKenzie?

‘Nothing yet. Devlin’s working on it, but I thought it best we go to the horse’s mouth first.’ Kennedy took a sip of her cappuccino. Lambert realised he didn’t know much about his colleague other than what he’d been told second-hand. She was clearly highly intelligent, and he’d already noticed a dry sense of humour. She was attractive in an unconventional way. Tall and wiry, she had pointed prominent features with deep-set hazel eyes. It was the hair which distinguished her. It was tied back now – lines of fiery red pulled tight, making her pale forehead more prominent.

‘Sip up,’ said Lambert, getting to his feet.

It was a short walk to Robinson’s chambers. Lunchtime was ending, reluctant workers returning to their offices bereft at having to leave the blazing sunshine. Kennedy followed a pace behind as they made the short walk. An immaculately attired man, mid-forties with short brown hair, greeted them as they entered the chambers. The man stood, and assessed them in one curious glance. ‘How may I help?’ he asked, his voice a resonant baritone.

‘DCI Lambert, DS Kennedy. We have an appointment with Charles Robinson.’

‘James Latchford, head clerk,’ said the man, surprising Lambert who had mistaken him for one of the barristers. Latchford glanced down at the folio on his desk and beamed a smile at them. ‘Yes, please take a seat and Mr Robinson will be with you shortly.’

Lambert paced the small reception area, admiring the bookcases lined with ancient legal texts, common law and statute books. He doubted the leather-backed tomes ever left their shelves, given that the printed words had all been codified and were available online. Still, they provided a decorative air of authority.

His concentration was diverted by a booming Welsh voice. ‘DCI Lambert?’

Lambert turned to face Charles Robinson. Dressed in a three piece suit, a silk tie pressed so tight into his neck it almost choked him, the man looked little over fifty. He had a mane of silver hair, and the type of smile you would expect to see in a glossy magazine.

‘And you must be DS Kennedy,’ said Robinson, turning his attention to Matilda.

‘Mr Robinson.’

‘Please, call me Charles. Shall we?’ He ushered them through a set of oak panelled doors towards his office. ‘Please sit, may I get you coffee, tea?’

‘No, thank you, Charles,’ said Lambert.

‘So, how may I help?’

‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ said Matilda. They had agreed on the walk over that she would speak first.

‘Oh yes?’ said Robinson, the smile remaining, his eyes narrowing.

‘I’m afraid the body of Moira Sackville was found in her flat yesterday evening. She has been the victim of a suspected murder.’

Robinson’s face collapsed, and Lambert saw another side to the man. An older, scared Robinson, the façade of his professional self vanishing. ‘Moira? How? Why?’ he said, his voice whisper quiet. He turned away from them in his swivel chair, facing a bookcase which mirrored the one in the reception area.

Lambert gave him a moment. ‘How well did you know Mrs Sackville?’ he asked.

Robinson didn’t answer. He remained facing the bookcase. Lambert was about to ask again when the man dragged his hand across his face and turned back in their direction. ‘Sorry about that. This is quite a shock.’ His bright red face highlighted the faint creases in his complexion, ageing him by ten years. ‘How well did I know her? I knew her well. She is a good friend of Prue. Prue McKenzie. Sorry, Prue is a friend of the chambers, does a lot of work for charity. I met Moira through her at one of the functions. And her husband, Eustace,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘How is Eustace?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ said Lambert, not willing to divulge any more details at present.

‘How close were you to Moira, Mr Robinson?’ asked Kennedy.

Robinson linked his hands together, and stared at Kennedy. ‘I suppose you know something or you wouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘I would sincerely hope this doesn’t get out, for Eustace’s sake, but yes, Moira and I were lovers for a time.’

Lambert doubted the man’s concern was for Moira’s widower. ‘How long?’

‘Five years, on and off.’

‘How often did you see her?’ asked Kennedy, a coldness in her tone.

‘Listen, it was her choice. I never instigated anything, and would never contact her. I would only see her when she contacted me. That was the way it worked and I respected it.’

‘Do you mind me asking if you have a significant partner?’ asked Lambert.

Robinson frowned. ‘No. My wife died fifteen years ago and there has been no one serious since.’ He ran his hands through his hair, leaving a loose tuft sticking up from his scalp. ‘I don’t feel great about what happened. I don’t prey on other people’s wives as a rule. I’m afraid Moira wasn’t that happy with Eustace, and that was long before I came along. I didn’t steal her. She was obviously missing something in her life which I provided.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ said Kennedy.

Robinson clenched 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?’