The Wrecking Bar

by Meurig Jones

  The Wrecking Bar

  Meurig Jones

  For Marion and Ken

  and the regulars at the White Hart

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  I am deeply indebted to South Wales Police for providing me with information and setting me right on details of police procedure.

  ONE

  AS HE NEARED the familiar terrace house, Keith slowed his steps. Thoughts of turning back and going home weighed on his mind but he was committed now. He’d promised his friend, and he would go through with it. Besides, in a strange way, the thought of what was about to happen fascinated him – like being drawn to the scene of an accident.

  To calm his nerves, he tried breathing deeply, inhaling the overpowering smell of yeast from the local brewery. Streets away, he heard voices rising in anger, and then a bottle smashing. He walked faster, conscious of the slap of his shoes on the wet paving slabs, slick from a recent shower.

  He paused in front of the shabby front door, pulled a pair of woollen gloves from his anorak pockets and slid them on. Then, glancing nervously over his shoulder, he stared into the shadows, eyes straining for any sign of movement. After eleven o’clock the pubs would turn out, or stragglers on their way home from the cinema would be on the streets, but at 9.15 people were where they wanted to be and the street behind him was deserted.

  The muffled sound of a television set came from the living room. Keith knew Con’s father spent most of his time glued to the set, chain smoking and swilling beer, all provided by state benefits. He rang the doorbell, keeping his finger on the button for a good couple of seconds until footsteps pounded down the hall. The door swung wide open, exactly as he’d expected. Mr O’Sullivan looked down at him, his eyes hard and cold, mouth clenched tight. When he recognized Keith, a glint came into his piggy eyes and an ugly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘He’s not home. I thought he was at your place.’

  Keith tried to keep his voice steady. ‘That’s why I came round. To see if he wanted to come over and see the rest of Goldfinger on TV.’

  O’Sullivan shook his head, puzzled. ‘Well, if he’s not with you …’

  As if remembering how stupid he’d been, Keith raised his performance a notch. ‘Oh, of course. I forgot. He arranged to go to Pete’s tonight.’

  ‘Who the hell’s Pete?’

  ‘New boy in our class.’

  O’Sullivan nodded as he assimilated this information. Keith waited nervously, wanting to glance over his shoulder. The longer he waited in the street, the greater the chances he’d be seen. And what if Con’s father didn’t ask him in? Their plans would be ruined. Keith shifted his feet and gave O’Sullivan a weak smile. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better head home. Don’t want to miss too much of the film.’

  Unable to suppress a crafty smile, O’Sullivan glanced furtively up and down the street, and Keith knew he’d taken the bait. ‘You can watch it with me if you like. And I’m sure a youngster like you could handle a beer.’ He stood aside, holding the door open, his huge body filling the entrance.

  This was it then. Taking a deep breath, Keith squeezed past O’Sullivan, his arm rubbing against the man’s enormous stomach. It disgusted him, but he tried not to show his feelings. O’Sullivan slammed the door shut and led the way down the hall to the living room. Keith had been here twice before and remembered the stink of cat’s piss, and tonight a curry smell also hung in the air. In the living room, his eyes were drawn to the TV set, a scene where James Bond was strapped to a bench and was about to be sliced up the middle by a laser cutter. As the deadly beam neared Bond’s crotch, O’Sullivan giggled.

  ‘Ouch!’ he exclaimed, closing the living-room door. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll get you a beer.’

  Keith sank into the sofa, looked up and noticed O’Sullivan eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘What’s with the gloves? It’s not cold out.’

  Keith had an explanation ready. ‘I’m having piano lessons. And just the slightest drop in temperature …’ He left the sentence open-ended, hoping this was enough. Con’s father shrugged, bent over the coffee table, prised a can of beer from a six-pack and handed it to him.

  ‘You can take your gloves off now. You’re inside where it’s warm.’

  Keith stared at the beer can in his hand, trying to think of something to say. His nerves were jarred by pounding music from the television set, and he gripped the can tighter.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ O’Sullivan asked.

  ‘I’d sooner leave the gloves on. I’ve been having skin problems.’

  ‘I thought it was something to do with the piano.’

  ‘I need to cure the skin problem so I can get back to playing the piano.’ As he lied about his hands, Keith stared at the television screen. Inside he burned with fear, waiting to hear Con enter the front door. Thankfully the volume on the television was turned up high.

  ‘How you gonna open your beer?’ Con’s father demanded.

  Keith paused. He hadn’t expected this. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, placing the unopened can on the coffee table, ‘I don’t know why I took it. I had a beer once before and it tasted like medicine.’

  As he stretched forward, glancing at his watch, he saw four minutes had elapsed since he’d entered the house. He and Con had agreed they’d be just five minutes apart. One minute more and it would be over. Something throbbed in his calf, a spasm he couldn’t control. He wanted to change his mind. But it was too late for that. He’d reached the point of no return.

  O’Sullivan laughed and eased himself onto the sofa. ‘Boy like you … not liking beer. Bit of a wimp, if you ask me. Still, you’re a nice-looking young wimp.’

  Keith focused on the television, trying to appear calm. It took a moment to register something crawling like a spider along his thigh. Then, as he felt warmth through his denims, he realized it was O’Sullivan’s hand. Praying the minute was almost up, Keith looked round, and the stench of rancid sweat overwhelmed him as O’Sullivan shifted his bulk closer and squeezed his leg. Keith had the awful feeling the man was about to kiss him. The booze-red face and double chins, the revolting fleshy lips puckering in anticipation, loomed closer, and Keith felt sickened by breath so bad it actually smelt like shit. Now he knew exactly why Con had to destroy his own father. But where was his friend? Had he changed his mind at the last minute?

  The grip tightened on his thigh. ‘Hey, come on! I thought we were gonna have some fun.’

  Squinting at the living-room door behind O’Sullivan, Keith thought he saw the doorknob turn but couldn’t be certain. Suddenly, the father made a lunge for him, reaching for his crotch.

  ‘Get off me!’ Keith sprang off the sofa and stumbled against the television set as the living-room door swung open. Feeling a blast of cool air, O’Sullivan stopped and began to turn round.

  He never saw what hit him. The metal bar came down with a sickening crack on the t
op of his head, like a rock being split in half.

  Shocked, yet fascinated, Keith watched Con raise the club again. This time the blow split the skull open and he could see the father’s brains spill. He felt sick and looked away, swallowing saliva to control the queasy feeling.

  Numbed by the horror of what he’d done, Con stared at his father’s enormous body slumped across the sofa, the head a repulsive broken ball, oozing blood on to the sofa. Then he stepped back and let the metal bar slip from his fingers.

  Keith grabbed at Con’s jacket, and saw the stream of blood that was splattered across his friend’s trousers and shoes. Knowing Con was about to panic, he tightened his grip, but Con slipped out of his grasp. ‘Wait!’ Keith shouted. ‘Don’t run! We have to walk back to my place.’

  The front door slammed and he stood rooted to the spot, praying no one would identify Con on the streets. He was shaking and sweating with fear, his clothes soaked as if he had a fever, and there were great spots of blood on his shoes. He had to keep his cool and finish their plan. Working quickly, he grabbed a plastic shopping bag that had contained the six-pack and thrust the murder weapon inside it. He almost gagged as he saw bits of bone clinging to the blood smeared on the club.

  O’Sullivan’s body was on its stomach, so Keith fumbled in the back of the man’s trousers and removed his wallet. He took two £5 notes out and shoved them inside his anorak. Then he pocketed O’Sullivan’s wallet, intending to drop it somewhere in the neighbourhood, making certain it wasn’t in the direction they were heading, and hope the police would see this as a robbery gone bad.

  As soon as he left the living room, Keith felt his legs give way. He ran a hand against the wall of the hallway as he staggered towards the front door. But his head was clear and he remembered what to do. He clicked the front door lock on to the latch, as they’d arranged. Con would deny ever owning a key to his house, would get rid of it, and explain his father sometimes left the latch on so that he could let himself in.

  Stepping out on to the street, Keith spotted a man with a dog on a lead walking on the other side. He eased back into the doorway, waiting in the shadows until the man passed by. As soon as the coast was clear, he walked briskly from the house in the opposite direction, holding the bag with the murder weapon beneath his coat. The further he got from the scene of the murder, the easier his breath came. Within a few minutes he felt a soaring sensation in his chest; the same thrill he experienced when listening to a Black Sabbath track. Everything was clear now. He was in control, and this was just the start. He was going places. One of those places was a quiet spot on the river, not far from the park on the Isle of Dogs, where he’d hurl the metal bar into the River Thames.

  But an idea came into his mind, cunning and audacious. Instead, he’d take the murder weapon home with him.

  TWO

  DRIVING FROM HIS flat in the Mumbles along the sea front towards Swansea Marina, Lambert experienced the initial nervousness he invariably felt before visiting a murder scene. His temperature rising, he wondered if wearing his leather coat had been a mistake, because it was unseasonably warm and sunny for mid October. He toyed with the idea of turning on the air conditioning, but the unnatural blast of cold would irritate, so instead he let window down, breathing in good sea air mixed with car fumes. The dazzling autumn sun was low in the sky and he squinted and lowered his windscreen visor. Stopping at a set of traffic lights he felt a sting of cold air coming in from the mouth of the Bristol Channel, a reminder of how cold the nights were becoming.

  A trickle of sweat ran from under his arm and he realized it had little to do with the temperature. He’d always had an aversion to violent crime and sometimes wondered if perhaps he should transfer to another division. But his CID record was a good one, unblemished in fact, and he drove such thoughts out of his mind, hoping his squeamishness wouldn’t show at the crime scene. He felt a weak stomach was a shortcoming in a police officer and tried to hide it by appearing blasé. But he could never switch off his feelings. The only time he’d let it show was when the victim of a particularly brutal slaying was a pre-pubescent girl. He’d needed counselling after that one. But he hadn’t been the only one affected, and it seemed perfectly normal at the time to see tough, grown men weeping because they found it difficult to cope with what they’d seen.

  A quick blast on a car horn disturbed his morbid thoughts and he realized the lights had turned green. Raising a hand to his driving mirror to acknowledge the driver behind, he took his foot off the brake pedal, pressed hard on the accelerator and the Mercedes automatic darted forwards. He smiled, inwardly pleased with his new toy. The two-year-old Mercedes was a compensatory gift for himself, bought when he received the decree nisi from Helen’s solicitor.

  Once he had turned off the main road towards the marina, it didn’t take long to locate the crime scene. The yacht basin in the middle of the marina was surrounded by luxury flats on one side and a pub, shops and restaurants on the other. He parked near the crime scene vehicles and walked to the police cordon. Opposite, on the other side of the basin, customers lined up outside the pub, joking and laughing as they watched crime scene officers search for evidence on the deck of a small launch.

  Detective Sergeant Tony Ellis stood on the quayside near where the boat was moored, his receding hairline drenched in sweat. Beside him stood Detective Constable Kevin Wallace, nervously pulling on his moustache, an adornment he’d grown hoping to give his boyish, chubby face a touch of authority. The two men were already kitted out in crime scene outfits.

  Standing a little way off, near another SOCO van, was Debbie Jones, and Lambert saw her talking to someone he couldn’t see, on the other side of the vehicle. He liked Debbie. She was part Welsh, part Asian, and correctly guessed the Asian was on her mother’s side. She was slim, attractive and elegant in a trim-fitting, charcoal-grey trouser suit, her black hair centre-parted and falling into neat curves, ending just below her chin. Because she hadn’t changed into crime scene coveralls, Lambert mentally gave her extra Brownie points for anticipating the way he intended to work the investigation.

  He gave the detectives a cursory wave before changing into protective clothing. A wolf whistle came from across the yacht basin as he walked towards the boat, followed by raucous laughter from the drinkers. When Lambert reached the steps leading down to the boat, he stopped and spoke to Ellis.

  ‘The incident took place inside the boat, I take it. Have you been down there yet?’

  ‘Got here just minutes before you did, sir.’ Ellis wiped his forehead with the back of the blue surgical glove he wore.

  ‘It’s extremely cramped down there.’

  Lambert turned as he recognized the broad North Wales dialect of Dave, the crime scene manager.

  ‘Hello, Dave,’ Lambert acknowledged with a nod. ‘Bad, is it?’

  ‘Not a pretty sight, this one.’ Dave looked pointedly at Ellis and Wallace. ‘Like I said, Harry, it’s small and cramped, and Hughie John’s down there. And you know what he’s like about wanting his space.’

  ‘Bloody prima donna,’ said Lambert. ‘Still, he does a good job. Where would we be without forensics? OK. Thanks, Dave. It was never my intention for the troops to go swarming all over the joint.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’d better prepare myself. Press office is sending someone over and pretty soon we’ll have reporters and the telly people swarming all over the marina.’

  As Dave returned to his vehicle, Lambert acknowledged Debbie Jones with a brief nod and slight smile, before talking to the three of them.

  ‘I’m going to take a look down below and have a word with Hughie. Incidentally, who discovered the body?’

  ‘Emergency call came through over an hour ago,’ Ellis said. ‘Man named Gordon Mayfield. He has a boat moored in the next basin. Seems he’d borrowed a boat hook or something from the victim and was returning it.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘On board his boat. There’s a female PC with him. Mandy Go
ring. Got her job cut out trying to calm him. Apparently he was very shocked by what he found.’

  It took Lambert a moment to deliberate. He realized the other detectives probably had a morbid curiosity to visit the crime scene, a compulsion to see the awful reality of human viciousness, even though it was something they hated doing. But he knew any potential witnesses need to be interviewed promptly, while small details are fresh in their minds.

  ‘Right,’ he said decisively, glancing briefly at the boat. ‘Let’s give Hughie the space he needs.’ He turned towards Ellis and Wallace. ‘Tony, Kevin, you can both get changed, quick as you can. Tony, I want you to question this Gordon Mayfield. On second thoughts, take Debbie with you. See if you can find out whether the victim had any visitors to his boat.’

  ‘I’m onto it.’ Ellis hurried towards one of the police SOCO vans to remove his protective clothing. Before following him, DC Debbie Jones hesitated, staring at Lambert with an expression of motherly concern, sympathetic yet reproachful. Her boss’s dark hair was greying fast, his rugged features looked unhealthily drawn, and his once slim physique had become flabby.

  ‘Well?’ he snapped, irritated by her ambivalent manner. ‘Something wrong?’

  She shook her head and walked off. He immediately forgot about her and pointed out the apartment block to DC Wallace.

  ‘Kevin, I want you to start calling on the marina apartments to see if anyone noticed anything unusual happening in this vicinity. Anything, however trivial it might seem.’

  ‘You don’t think a quick dekko of the actual crime scene might help—’

  Lambert interrupted him. ‘No, I don’t think it’s necessary for you to view the corpse. You can see the photos. I want you to find out if anyone visited this boat.’

  DC Wallace nodded, looking slightly shamefaced. ‘I’m onto it.’ Immediately regretting using the same words as Tony Ellis, he turned sharply and walked away, relieved his boss couldn’t see the beetroot colour of his complexion.