The Wrecking Bar

by Meurig Jones

  But Lambert was already on his way down the steps at the quayside to where the boat was moored. Stepping gingerly aboard the narrow edge of the launch, which he noticed was named Narcissus, he held the rail with a gloved hand to steady himself onto the deck at the stern. Below the bridge of the boat was the entrance to the cabin, and he took a deep breath to prepare himself for what he had to confront. He nodded to a couple of SOCO officers who were examining the deck closely, and then turned to begin his descent, but stopped to give way to a crime scene officer carrying a video camera.

  ‘I hope that carries an eighteen certificate,’ he said.

  The officer chuckled. ‘These days this sort of thing would get by with a PG.’

  Lambert stepped cautiously onto the steep steps, ducking under the sliding hatch, and descended into the cabin. As he entered, he saw Hughie John move back from the corpse to give the photographer a clear shot. The bulb flashed, and that was when Lambert observed that the corpse was naked, lying on its back on the cabin floor, wedged between a wicker chair and a long bench seat, awash in a pool of blood. The battered head had something thick and black across the lower part of the face. It looked like a strip of gaffer tape, used to silence the victim. Lambert stepped cautiously into the cramped cabin and felt a crunching beneath his feet as he stepped on shards of glass.

  Hughie turned to greet him. ‘Harry, good to have you on board.’

  Lambert acknowledged Hughie’s joke with a grim smile. Then, as his eyes were drawn along the man’s naked body, they widened at the horror of it. Hughie watched his reaction.

  When Lambert spoke, his voice seemed to be cloaked in some dark and forbidden past. ‘What happened to his penis?’

  ‘Looks like he had acid poured on it.’

  Lambert exhaled slowly. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘No,’ Hughie said, smirking. ‘That was nails through hands and feet, but no acid on the genitalia.’

  ‘Please, Hughie! Spare me the gallows humour and tell me what happened here.’

  ‘Well, the victim’s hands are bound behind his back. I’d say he was killed by three blows to the head, mainly to the side, as there’s not enough room to swing a cat in here. Looks like the killer tried to get a good hard blow from above and came in contact with the light above, which explains the broken glass everywhere. Looks like it’s nearing the end of rigor; putrefaction hasn’t set in yet, in spite of the heat, so my rough guess would be time of death approximately ten hours ago, but I can’t be certain until John Jackson’s done the post mortem. There’s also a small bruising at the back of the neck, indicating a blow to knock the victim unconscious. He was probably stripped, had his hands bound behind him, was sat in the wicker chair, and had acid poured on his penis. Something like sulphuric acid, I should think, and that would have eaten away at his privates. Mustn’t make assumptions, but it looks like he’d been playing fast and loose with someone else’s chattels.’

  Lambert nodded and stared at the body. ‘How old would you say he is?’

  Hughie pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘At a rough guess, I’d say late fifties, early sixties maybe.’

  ‘Any sign of the murder weapon?’

  Hughie smiled and pointed towards Lambert’s foot. ‘You’re standing next to it.’

  Lambert looked down. Sure enough, his foot almost touched a steel bar about three feet long, lying in a pool of blood and broken glass. He stooped and stared at it closely, looking to see if it had the manufacturer’s name on it.

  ‘I think that’s called a wrecking bar,’ Hughie informed him, and couldn’t resist adding, ‘Appropriate name, eh?’

  Lambert peered at the blood-stained shaft of the bar. He saw tiny letters near to the curved claw end of the bar, squinted and read aloud: ‘Made in China. Well that narrows the field.’

  Hughie chuckled as he watched Lambert. ‘They reckon China’s now the world’s leading exporter. GDP growth at the rate of more than nine per cent over the last twenty-five years. Up until less fortunate times, of course.’

  Rising from his stooping position, Lambert said, ‘Enough of world economics, Hughie. D’you reckon once the weapon’s dusted we’ll find a set of prints?’

  Grinning, Hughie shook his head.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Lambert agreed. ‘Still, it’s got to be done.’ Looking towards a bench seat, he stooped and peered at the recess under it. ‘This glass looks different from the broken light.’

  ‘I think that’s a smashed bottle of Beck’s beer,’ Hughie said. ‘And there’s another bottle behind it, unbroken and unopened.’

  Lambert straightened, and stared at the untidy bundle of clothes on the bench seat. ‘The victim’s clothes?’

  Hughie nodded. ‘They seem to be the right fit.’

  The cabin was again filled with a blaze of light as the photographer took a shot of the murder weapon. Lambert examined the clothes. There was a rugby shirt, but not aligned to any particular club, more of a fashion statement, boat shoes, and a pair of khaki chinos. Seeing a bulge inside the back pocket of the chinos, Lambert inserted his hand and drew out the wallet. When he flipped it open, he saw maybe a couple of hundred pounds in it. That would rule out robbery. Then he saw the bank debit card and the name on it. ‘My God! This bloke’s name.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s unusual. You couldn’t make it up. It’s like a character from a Charles Dickens book.’

  ‘Come on,’ Hughie said. ‘Hit me with it! I’d like to know the victim’s name.’

  Lambert raised his eyebrows and stared at Hughie. ‘You ready for this? Lubin Titmus.’

  Instead of laughing, Hughie stared at his feet, frowning thoughtfully as he searched his memory.

  ‘What is it, Hughie?’

  ‘I don’t know. Name rings a bell. But where from?’

  Lambert sighed deeply. ‘Yes, as soon as I saw the name, I thought I recognized it. But I haven’t a clue either. All I know is I’ve come across the name before.’

  The wallet had a display section inside, just big enough for a credit card, with a clear plastic window showing a senior citizen’s railcard.

  ‘At least we know he’s in his sixties. He’s got a senior railcard.’ He removed the railcard from its display section and turned it over. ‘This makes life easier. It’s got his postcode on the back, in case of loss.’ He stuck his hand in one of the leg pockets of the chinos, pulled out a bunch of keys and rattled them in front of Hughie. ‘I’m off, Hughie. I reckon I need to move quickly on this one, get to the victim’s home address. And if there’s no one home …’

  Lambert paused, and Hughie finished his sentence for him. ‘You can let yourself in and have a snoop around.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Hughie, when hopefully you’ll have something for me.’

  As Lambert moved towards the stairs, Hughie called after him, ‘When you find out who he is, give me a bell and put me out of my misery. Otherwise it’ll bug me all night.’

  THREE

  HAVING INSERTED THE postcode into his navigation system, it took Lambert less than twenty minutes to get from the crime scene to Port Talbot, near the victim’s home. The house was somewhere in the middle of a narrow one-way street, and the postcode offered him a choice of four or five houses. Lambert found a space to park and walked towards where he thought the house would be.

  Most of the houses were terraced, with small gardens at the front, some of which had well-tended gardens, proudly displaying flowers and potted shrubs, but most had been paved over to accommodate a car or motorbike. But there was one house that stood out like a sore thumb. Not just because it looked neglected and decaying, with its dirty net curtains and a broken window pane which had been temporarily repaired with a sheet of plywood, but it was the door that was conspicuous. It was spray-painted with the word ‘SCUM’ in deepest red.

  Lambert stared at it for a moment, frowning hard and searching his memory for something that had been on the regional news recently. Suddenly it came to him in
a rush, and he remembered the television pictures: affronted mothers standing in the street, waving banners and shouting abuse; angry talking heads; rage and fear of living near men who were a danger and a menace to innocent children. It had happened after the Sun had named and shamed convicted paedophiles living in South Wales, causing members of the community to start behaving as vigilantes.

  Right away Lambert was certain he had found the victim’s house. He swung open the creaking metal gate and walked down the paved path, grass growing between the cracks, adding to the deserted feel of the place. He felt in his pockets for the victim’s keys and was about to see which key fitted the lock when his attention was distracted by a movement behind him. He spun round and found himself face to face with a pugnacious-looking man of about fifty, standing rather too close and invading his space, poised and ready to attack with a head butt. Bloated and red-faced, and sweating profusely, the man reeked of alcohol and tobacco.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Lambert said, easing back.

  ‘You a friend of that bastard?’ He spoke with a strong Glaswegian dialect.

  ‘I take it you mean Mr Titmus?’

  ‘I asked if you were a friend of that dirty bastard.’

  Lambert shook his head. ‘I’m a police officer.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  Lambert fumbled in his back pocket and brought out his ID. The man stared closely at it, and then locked eyes with Lambert.

  ‘So what’s the bastard done this time?’

  Ignoring the question, Lambert regarded the man calmly, taking his time before speaking. ‘The house looks deserted. Has Titmus been back here lately?’

  The man pursed his lips and shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Well, you were quick enough to intercept me. So I naturally assumed you must be keeping an eye on the place. Why would that be, I wonder?’

  ‘We don’t want scum like that in the neighbourhood. This is a respectable area.’

  Lambert inclined his head towards the door. ‘Presumably it was you who sprayed the message on there.’

  ‘You can presume all you like. Proof’s another matter.’

  ‘There are worse crimes than graffiti.’

  The man’s glassy, alcohol-sodden eyes suddenly blazed with anger. ‘Exactly! Like interfering with children. Dirty fuckin’ bastard.’

  ‘So you decided to take the law into your own hands?’

  The man sniffed noisily and swallowed. ‘We have a right to protect our children.’

  Lambert took out a pen and notebook. ‘And just how far would you go to protect your children?’

  ‘Oh, I’d go all the way. Believe me. I’d do anything to protect my children.’

  ‘I think I’d better have your name and address.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because I’m asking you for it, sir.’

  The man jerked a thumb back. ‘I live two doors away from the bastard. Number thirty-three. Name’s Norman McNeil.’

  ‘Well, Mr McNeil, we’ll need to talk again soon. But for now I’ve got these premises to search.’

  McNeil rubbed his chin thoughtfully, passing a hand across his mouth, a gesture the detective noted as the action of a man reluctant to speak. Of course, it could have been police phobia. McNeil struck him as the sort who thinks the police are useless and do nothing except hound poor motorists.

  McNeil leaned forward conspiratorially and Lambert got a blast of putrid tobacco breath. ‘If you ask me, you guys are too busy chasing the wrong people.’

  Lambert jangled the keys in front of him. ‘I have to get on and search these premises. We’ll be round later to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘What about?’

  For now, Lambert decided not to tell McNeil about the murder. He wanted to find out if McNeil had known the victim had a boat moored at the marina. If he did know, he could be a prime suspect, and even if he turned out to be innocent, it was always possible he could have told someone else.

  ‘Just some routine questions and information about Lubin Titmus,’ Lambert said. ‘Like, for instance, how often did he come back to his house?’

  ‘Hardly at all during the day. I think he sneaked back late at night to collect things. My wife saw him one night – about two in the morning it was. Her friend from work was getting married and they was coming back from a hen night. Jackie – that’s the missus – shouted out what sort of scum he was. She might have woken some of the neighbours. She was a bit bevvied, like.’

  ‘Mr McNeil, did you happen to know where Lubin Titmus went to from here? Whether or not he had other accommodation?’

  McNeil stared at Lambert, an inward struggle showing in his face. ‘How the hell am I supposed to know that?’

  It was on the tip of Lambert’s tongue to say, ‘You could have followed him,’ but he thought better of it. That could wait until later.

  ‘Thank you, Mr McNeil. That’ll be all for the moment. We’ll be in touch with you later today. We would appreciate it if you’d make yourself available.’

  McNeil shrugged. ‘I wasn’t planning on going out.’

  He turned, staggered slightly, and then lumbered out of the gate. Lambert slid the key into the lock and pushed open the front door. A musty, stale smell confronted him as he entered the airless house. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment, surveying the hallway.

  The walls were decorated with rose-motif wallpaper so ancient it was difficult to tell the colour of the roses. Lambert smiled wryly as he stared at a grey art-deco mirror hanging from a blackened silver chain that closely resembled the hideous one in the living room of his grotty flat. A hat stand, containing several golf umbrellas slotted into its base, stood next to the mirror. Lambert pushed open the door leading to the front room and entered, coughing as he felt the dust tickling the back of his throat. Although it was still sunny outside, the room was gloomy, the heavy damask, maroon curtains half closed, blocking out most of the light, except for a stream of sunlight forcing its way through drab net curtains in the centre gap, highlighting a shaft of dust motes and coming to rest on a patch of threadbare carpet. The furniture, which consisted of a sofa with wooden arms and an easy chair that may have been the latest ‘contemporary’ feature in the late 1950s, contrasted sharply with the latest HD flat screen television set and DVD player. Scattered around it were dozens of DVDs, which Lambert saw were predominantly pornographic. He flicked his way through a selection. They seemed to be of every persuasion: everything from teenage sluts, to anal and oral sex between hetero and homosexuals. Incongruously, beneath a film about gang rape, he found The Wizard of Oz, the cover showing Dorothy walking arm in arm with the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion along the yellow brick road.

  Lubin Titmus appeared to have eclectic tastes, Lambert thought sourly.

  In an alcove next to the tiled fireplace was a roll-top desk. Lambert slid it open and searched the various compartments, finding nothing but odds and ends of stationery, but when he slid open one of the drawers he found a photograph of a thin-faced man with white hair and a black moustache – late fifties, he guessed – unsmilingly staring at the camera as if he was reluctant to be photographed. His arm was draped about a boy’s shoulders. The boy looked to be about twelve or thirteen, and there didn’t seem to be any family resemblance to the man. Lambert turned the photograph over. Written in ink were the words: ‘Gordon and friend’.

  He pocketed the photograph, and was about to call Tony Ellis when his mobile bleeped. He clicked the receive button and saw there was a message from Hughie.

  ‘No need to call me. Victim Sun exposed pervert. C U 2morrow.’

  Lambert clicked off the message and continued to call Ellis.

  If anything, Gordon Mayfield’s boat, The Amethyst, was even smaller and more cramped than the victim’s. It was stifling and claustrophobic, and PC Goring, who had been solicitously plying the witness with words of comfort, sat squashed into a tight corner, feeling the start of an excruciating pain in her back as she w
as hunched into an uncomfortable position in the stern. She had had to make room for the two detectives, who sat on a bench seat across from Mayfield, who was sitting on another bench seat opposite them.

  Mayfield was thin and angular, his cheekbones jutted out like carved marble, and his sunken eyes were green. His hair was thick, wavy and pure white, but his moustache was jet black, giving it a dyed appearance. He was clearly distressed at finding the body as there seemed to be a permanent tremor in his voice, and his hands shook like an alcoholic’s.

  ‘Can you remember what time you found his body, sir?’ Tony Ellis asked.

  Mayfield frowned deeply, staring at the floor as he tried to remember. He cleared his throat gently before speaking. ‘Yes, I remember looking at my watch just before I went over there. It was just after 12.30.’

  Ellis exchanged a brief look with DC Jones before continuing. ‘The emergency call came through at 2.30 from your mobile, two hours after you discovered the body. Any reason for the delay, sir?’

  Mayfield’s eyes flickered briefly as they made contact with Ellis, then he looked away again. Jones stared at him intently, wondering if he was about to break down. While they waited for him to respond they could hear beery laughter coming from the pub across the basin, followed by a girlish squeal. Ellis was about to prompt Mayfield, when he suddenly stammered a tearful response.

  ‘It was so … so shocking … f-finding him like that. I felt sick. I wanted to hide.’

  Ellis frowned. ‘Hide? Why would you want to hide, sir?’

  ‘His head … the way he’d been beaten. It was awful.’

  ‘But wouldn’t most people, on experiencing such a dreadful thing, telephone the police immediately?’

  ‘I told you: I felt sick.’

  ‘Yes and I think you said you wanted to hide.’

  ‘I just meant … it was so awful, I wanted the earth to swallow me up. I was in a state of shock.’

  ‘You mentioned how sick you felt. Were you physically sick at the crime scene or anywhere near it?’