Dead Eyed by Matt Brolly

the adrenalin leaking into her system. From her office drawer, she took out her Kindle and downloaded a copy of Hastings’ last novel, Blood Kill , and began reading.

Chapter 7
    Klatzky had already started drinking. Lambert found him sitting with a giggling group of students, swigging from a pint of lager. The students were all girls. In their late teens, early twenties, they were strikingly beautiful, particularly in comparison to the rough and jaded figure of Klatzky. Unbelievably, they were enjoying his company. One of their number, a tall slender girl, laughed every time Klatzky opened his mouth, stroking her dark hair absentmindedly with her left hand. Klatzky had always been successful with women at University but Lambert was surprised that these women would have anything to do with him now.
    ‘Mikey, come and join us,’ shouted Klatzky, on seeing Lambert.
    The young women stared at Lambert as he approached. A small blonde girl with an obvious fake tan and a face lined with over-enthusiastic make-up echoed Klatzky’s words. ‘Yes, Mikey, come and join us,’ she said, provoking good-natured laughter from the others. It was clear the whole group had been drinking for some time.
    ‘Simon, can I have a word?’ said Lambert, ignoring the young woman’s request.
    ‘Sure, sure,’ said Klatzky getting to his feet. ‘Here, girls, get another round in.’ Klatzky placed a twenty pound note on the table which was snapped up by the dark-haired girl.
    Lambert led Klatzky outside. He decided not to reprimand him about the drinking. ‘I’m thinking of staying for a couple of nights,’ he said.
    ‘Fantastic,’ said Klatzky. ‘Where do you have in mind?’
    ‘Listen, Si, I don’t think this is going to work, you being here.’
    ‘Don’t mind me, Mikey. I’ll keep out of your way. One city is much the same as another.’
    It was pointless arguing. ‘Fine, there’s a Marriott at the bottom of the hill. I’ll book us in separate rooms for the night. Then we can discuss the situation tomorrow. I’ll ring you later with the room number.’
    ‘Great. Listen, Mikey,’ Klatzky hesitated.
    Lambert sighed and took his wallet from his trouser pocket and handed Klatzky eighty pounds. ‘Don’t let those girls screw you over, Simon. And for God’s sake get something to eat.’
    ‘Yes, mum,’ said Klatzky, returning inside.
    Following his meeting with May, Lambert decided he would continue with his own investigation for the time being. He didn’t want to impede her in any way, but there were questions he was impatient to have answered. It was too coincidental that Billy Nolan and Terrence Haydon had lived one floor apart at University. There was a connection to be discovered between the two, however unlikely that sounded at the moment. Since joining the force, he’d always resisted the temptation to revisit the Souljacker case. He’d understood that he’d been too emotionally involved. Now it was unavoidable. Klatzky had forced his hand. Lambert decided to start where he would normally start: the victim’s closest relation.
    He hailed an approaching taxi and ordered the driver to take him to a small suburb of Bristol called Whitchurch where Terrence Haydon’s mother, Sandra Vernon, lived.
    Twenty minutes later, he reached his destination. Whitchurch was a grey area, populated by uninspired near-identical houses with ashen facades and dull brown-red tiled roofs. Sandra Vernon lived opposite a crumbling supermarket in a small terraced house. The front of the house was well maintained with UPVC windows. A stone pathway led through a neatly mowed front garden to the front door. Lambert waited for a beat and rang the doorbell.
    A small plump woman with large circular rimmed spectacles answered. The smell of cinnamon and burnt toast drifted from behind her. ‘Yes, what do you want?’ she inquired, in a high-pitched Welsh accent.
    Lambert told the woman that he was a friend of Terrence who had recently heard the