Dead Lucky. Matt Brolly
not a warning. Why bother going to such lengths, may as well have bumped him off as well? You think Eustace was being punished for something. Something he knew, or something he did. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you but I think you are barking up the wrong tree, as it were. At least, if it’s concerning me. Why would I care about what that journalist was up to? Maybe he pissed off the wrong people somewhere. But really, it’s all a bit, well, messy.’
‘And it has nothing to do with you, I presume?’
Blake pursed his lips, his face cracking into a patchwork of lines like an uncharted map. ‘Of course not. Now if you don’t mind, Atkinson here will show you out. Please pass on my regards to your superior.’
Lambert felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to face Atkinson, who had crept up on him.
He allowed the head of security to escort him out. He couldn’t argue with Blake’s logic and he’d summed it up very well. The case was messy. Finding a motive was proving elusive and it was a possibility that the attack was a one-off, that there was no rhyme or reason, and that unless the killer struck again they would never find out who he was.
Lambert headed for the train station, thinking that the time may have come to start using a pool car. He’d avoided travelling by car as much as possible since the car accident which had taken his daughter but it was becoming unavoidable. Travelling by public transport may give him time to think but it also ate away at his time. As long as he didn’t drive late at night, he was sure he would be okay.
He checked his phone. Kennedy had called and left a text message. It was something about Moira Sackville’s ex-lover, the barrister Charles Robinson. Lambert was about to call her back when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
It was a firm tap, more a grab, and Lambert immediately went on the defensive. He turned in one swift moment, at the same time stepping back a few steps to avoid any contact from a would-be attacker.
‘Steady there,’ said the man who’d tapped his shoulder, lifting his hands in defence.
‘Can I help you?’ said Lambert, still poised for attack.
The man reached into the inside pocket of his threadbare jacket and showed Lambert a warrant card. ‘DS Harrogate. We need to talk.’
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