by Meurig Jones
‘I may have been. It was just so terrible.’
Sergeant Ellis looked towards DC Jones, hoping she was on his wavelength.
‘Mr Mayfield,’ she said, ‘the crime officers found no traces of any vomit on his boat or on the quayside nearby.’
It was a lie. She couldn’t possibly have known about him not being sick as she hadn’t visited the immediate crime scene. But Ellis was satisfied she had picked up on the way he was leading the inquiry and carefully studied Mayfield to see how he would respond.
‘I suppose I just felt sick. I came back here and I was in a state of shock. It took me a while to recover.’
‘Two hours. And then you telephoned the police. Did you know the victim well?’
Mayfield shifted position on his seat, and then seemed to brace himself so that he could look Ellis in the eye. ‘Not well, no.’
‘He wasn’t a close friend then?’
‘More of an acquaintance.’
Debbie Jones studied him carefully. She knew he was lying, the way it seemed a great effort for him to hold Ellis’s stare.
‘How long had you known him?’ she asked.
Mayfield shrugged and thrust out his bottom lip as he thought about this. ‘Not long.’
‘How long?’
‘Oh, I think it might have been about three, four months maybe.’
‘How did you meet each other?’
‘Here at the marina. We just got talking one day.’
‘You just got talking!’ she echoed, combining astonishment with doubt.
‘Yes, that’s what it’s like with boat people. We all have a common interest and we like to talk about boats.’
A blaring noise in the cramped cabin startled everyone, which after a brief disorientation Debbie Jones recognized as the saxophone in Gerry Rafferty’s ‘Baker Street’, which was Ellis’s chosen ringtone.
Ellis fumbled for his Nokia then checked the display. It was Lambert. ‘I’d better get this.’
Irritated by the interruption, Debbie Jones glared at Ellis’s mobile, but as soon as she heard him saying, ‘Yes, boss,’ she listened carefully, trying to catch some of the conversation.
As Ellis listened to instructions, he studied Mayfield carefully, but his expression gave nothing away. After a short one-sided conversation, he said, ‘Right away, boss. I’ll bring him in.’ He pocketed his mobile and stood up, stooping under the low ceiling.
‘That was DI Lambert, and my boss would like to talk to you, Mr Mayfield. I hope you don’t mind coming with us?’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘There are some questions he’d like to ask you.’
Mayfield tried to stand up but his legs seemed to fail him. He was weak and frightened, a rabbit caught in headlights. As DC Jones watched him struggling to get up, she knew he was trying to hide something. Something which Lambert already knew. And she couldn’t wait to find out what it was.
FOUR
AS LAMBERT DROVE back along the short stretch of the M4 towards Swansea, he thought about the victim with the unusual name, whom he now knew was a convicted paedophile; and it also seemed likely that Gordon Mayfield was one, the two of them belonging to a group of sex offenders in South Wales. There had been a documentary about it on Channel 4, but the paedophiles were not identified because it was felt they had paid for their crimes, and they might not re-offend. But following a leak from the offices of the production company, the Sun had no such qualms about publishing the photographs and names of the six men involved.
Lambert was glad to be out of Port Talbot. Not that he had anything against the town, it was just that it brought back memories of his father who had died just over a year ago. After he had separated from Lambert’s mother more than twenty years ago, his father left to go and live in the steelworks town where he’d been born and bred. Lambert rarely saw him. He could never forgive him for the appalling way he’d treated his mother. Lambert was at Bristol University, reading law, and he’d come home one weekend to find his mother nursing a black eye and broken nose. Lambert went crazy when he found out what his father had done. The boozy father was no match for the fit, rugby-playing young man he was in those days, and ended up cowering and pleading for forgiveness. But Lambert never forgave him. It wasn’t just the domestic rows and the violence towards his wife: there was something more, something much worse. Something which Lambert had tried to deny all these years. And it was something which now surfaced like scum on the water as the likes of Titmus and Mayfield brought it home. But instead of confronting it, he swept the disturbing thoughts of his father from his mind and turned the radio on.
Sergeant Ellis and DC Jones were waiting outside an interview room when Lambert arrived at Swansea Central Police Station. Ellis had copies of the victim’s and Mayfield’s criminal records, which he handed to his boss.
‘How long’s he been on his own in there?’ Lambert asked Ellis.
‘Good fifteen minutes.’
Nodding his approval, Lambert asked about DC Wallace. Ellis shrugged and said, ‘I think he’s still doing the rounds at the marina flats. We took two cars to the crime scene so he should be able to make his way back here, no problem.’
Lambert suspected Wallace of skiving off but kept the thought to himself. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll question Mayfield. Debbie and Tony watch him and listen carefully to his answers, see if you can pick up on any inconsistencies. Let’s go.’
Mayfield looked up as Lambert entered, his face strained and anxious, eyes shifting from one detective to another. Lambert sat directly opposite him, with the table between them, and Debbie Jones sat next to him. Ellis picked up a chair and slid it into a position slightly to the left of Mayfield, so the witness was unable to look directly into the detective’s face but would feel his presence and know he was being closely scrutinized.
While Debbie Jones switched the tape recorder on and gave the time and date of the interview and the names of everyone present, Lambert slowly read details from Mayfield’s criminal record sheet. After Jones had done the announcement, he took his time reading, letting the silence unnerve Mayfield. When he eventually spoke it was with restraint, deliberately keeping any emotion out of his voice.
‘Mr Mayfield, you served five years of a seven-year sentence for sexual offences with children and you were released two years ago. When you were released they found you accommodation in Cardiff. Yet here you are in Swansea, of no fixed abode. Can you explain why that is?’
When Mayfield spoke, his voice was tremulous and rasping. ‘The place I was living in was terrible. A sort of halfway house, and I had to share a communal lounge and kitchen with alcoholics and down-and-outs.’
Lambert glanced down at the information sheet. ‘It says here that you owned a small house in Merthyr Tydfil. Why didn’t you go back there to live?’
‘Because the neighbours knew all about me. About why I’d gone to prison.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I managed to sell the house. Not for very much. Not now there’s high unemployment in the valleys and house prices have fallen. I got less than sixty thousand for it, but it was enough to buy the boat.’
‘But under the Violent and Sex Offenders Register, the terms of your release dictate that any change of address must be registered with the police. If you haven’t done so, you could end up back in prison.’
Mayfield was deathly still, his eyes cold as glass marbles.
‘I wrote to the police, to the headquarters at Bridgend. I explained about the accommodation and selling my house. I told them my boat would be moored at Swansea. I’ve kept a copy of the letter.’
‘That means nothing. You know damn well you’re supposed to visit a police station in person.’
They had to strain to hear Mayfield’s reply.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
In contrast to Mayfield’s mumbled apology, Lambert raised his voice. ‘Why did you decide to live on a boat?’
‘I’ve a
lways liked boats. It was something that has always appealed to me. Also …’ Mayfield struggled to find the right words and rubbed his hands nervously. ‘I needed a home in which I could move to another location if people found out who I was.’
‘Yet here’s a great coincidence: a friend of yours is murdered. Another convicted paedophile who also, like you, decided to live on a boat.’
Frowning hard, struggling for words, Mayfield looked down at his clammy hands. Lambert glanced at Ellis, who picked up the signal.
‘You lied to me, Mr Mayfield,’ Ellis said sharply. ‘You said you had only known the victim for a few months.’
‘I was confused. In a state of shock.’
Lambert fumbled in his pocket and brought out the photograph of Mayfield with the young boy. He slammed it onto the desk and pushed it towards Mayfield. ‘I expect you recognize this photo. I found it among the victim’s possessions at his house. You and the victim go back a long way, don’t you, Mr Mayfield?’
Mayfield stared at the photograph and nodded, his eyes dark and sunken, his pallor sickly.
‘How long had you known the victim?’ Lambert demanded. Although he had the details in the criminal records, he wanted to hear it from Mayfield. ‘Well?’
‘It was almost thirty years.’
‘He was in charge of a youth custody centre, wasn’t he? And you worked for him. You and he took advantage of your positions and abused the younger, most vulnerable inmates. Tell me about the boat hook.’
Mayfield caught Lambert’s eye briefly, the sudden change of tactic confusing him. It was a trick Lambert often used when questioning suspects, telling them something they already knew, and then asking about a detail they might have forgotten.
After a pause, Mayfield stammered, ‘I’m … I’m not sure what—’
Lambert interrupted harshly. ‘Didn’t you tell the uniformed officer that the reason you went over to the victim’s boat was to borrow his boat hook?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Lambert stared at the suspect and smiled humourlessly. ‘Or did you say you were returning his boat hook?’
‘I … I can’t remember.’
‘No, of course you can’t. It was another lie, wasn’t it?’
Tears suddenly trickled down Mayfield’s cheeks and he shook uncontrollably. He looked up at Lambert helplessly, as if the emotion was a demonstration to gain sympathy. But Lambert’s eyes were frosty. He despised Mayfield and wanted him to know that.
Eventually, Mayfield sniffed, wiped the back of his sleeve across his nose and started to speak hurriedly. ‘When I found Lubin like that, I was scared. I thought it might have been someone out for revenge, someone who had a grudge against him. One of his …’
‘Victims?’ Lambert prompted. ‘There must have been plenty of those over the years. And were you and Titmus up to your old tricks? Is that why you have a boat now, so that you can move to different areas and evade the law? Isn’t that the real reason?’
Mayfield shook his head rapidly. ‘No, it isn’t like that. I felt I’d done my time … paid for what I did. But when that newspaper printed our names and pictures, someone must have recognized Lubin and come after him.’
‘You mean they just happened to see him on the marina one day and decided to kill him?’ Lambert stared pointedly at one of the sheets in front of him. ‘Quite an ordinary-looking bloke, your friend Titmus. But you are quite distinctive-looking, almost striking, I would say. White wavy hair and a jet-black moustache. It seems odd that it was he and not you that may have been recognized. But of course we are talking hypothetically here, aren’t we?’
Lambert glanced at Ellis, who immediately picked up his cue.
‘Why did you quarrel with Titmus?’
‘Quarrel?’
‘Yes, quarrel!’ Ellis snapped. ‘You made up the story about the boat hook. Why did you visit his boat?’
‘Just to see him. No real reason. We were friends.’
‘Friends can still fall out. What was your argument about?’
Mayfield’s mouth opened but the words stuck in the back of his throat. Then his attention was diverted to the door opening behind Lambert and he seemed almost relieved by the distraction.
A uniformed sergeant entered and handed Lambert a sheet of paper. Lambert studied it carefully, his brow creasing into a slight frown.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ he said.
The uniformed sergeant threw an expression of loathing in Mayfield’s direction before leaving the room. Lambert stared at Mayfield for a long while as he deliberated. Ellis and Jones felt the tension growing, and knew by the interruption there had been a further development in the case.
‘Now then, Mr Mayfield,’ Lambert spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words. ‘Does the name Jarvis Thomas mean anything to you?’
They all stared at Mayfield, carefully watching his reaction. His face was now drained of all emotion and his body was as still as a graveyard statue.
‘Mr Mayfield,’ Lambert repeated impatiently, ‘does the name Jarvis Thomas mean anything to you?’
Almost inaudibly, Mayfield croaked, ‘I think he’s another one who was exposed by the newspaper.’
‘And did you know him?’
Both Ellis and Jones noticed their boss’s use of the past tense. But if Mayfield had noticed, he didn’t show it.
‘I know Jarvis – yes.’
Lambert put on a grave expression as he anticipated the revelation. ‘I regret to inform you, Mr Mayfield, that Jarvis Thomas has been murdered. Killed with several blows to the head with a metal bar. It looks as if a killer is targeting the sex offenders who were exposed in the Sun.’
Lambert stood up and Mayfield watched him, his eyes begging for understanding and sympathy.
‘What’s going to happen to me?’ he asked.
‘I and my colleagues are going to visit the crime scene in Carmarthen, where the second victim lived. But, of course, you would know that, wouldn’t you, Mr Mayfield? Oh, one other thing.’ Lambert tapped the photograph of Mayfield and the young boy. ‘What’s his name?’
‘He doesn’t live in this country now.’
Lambert leant forward, trying to catch Mayfield’s eye. ‘That’s not what I asked you. I asked you for his name.’
‘His name was Tom.’
Lambert picked up on the tense. ‘Was?’
‘Yes, I told you, he no longer lives here. He went to live abroad, permanently. Spain I think.’
‘When was this?’
‘Sometime in 2000.’
‘What’s his surname?’
‘I can’t remember.’
Lambert slammed a hand down so forcefully on to the desk, it startled DC Jones as much as Mayfield.
‘Don’t lie to me, Mr Mayfield. I want his name. Now!’
Trying to control the tremor in his voice, Mayfield said quietly, ‘His name’s Tom Thorne.’
Lambert glanced at DC Jones, who asked Mayfield as she scribbled on a notepad, ‘Is that with an E on the end?’
Mayfield nodded and asked, ‘What happens now?’
Lambert said, ‘What happens now is we are about to take a look at another gruesome murder. We won’t need you for the moment. But please don’t think about setting sail from Swansea. We’d like you to remain at the marina for further questioning. But for now, you’re free to go.’
Lambert gave DC Jones a nod and she terminated the interview, gave the time and clicked the machine off.
Mayfield looked as if he was glued to the chair.
‘You’re free to go,’ Lambert repeated.
‘But my life might be in danger. What about police protection?’
While Ellis and Jones rose hurriedly, Lambert looked at Ellis and said, ‘What do you think, Sergeant? Have we got the resources for that?’
Ellis sucked in his breath and shook his head. ‘How many people were in that tabloid exposé? Six of them, I believe. That’s an awful lot of our manpower twenty-four-seven. We couldn’t spare
that many coppers to watch all them blokes.’
‘Correction, Sergeant, there’s only four of them now.’
Ellis shrugged. ‘Even so, it’s still a lot of manpower.’
With enormous effort, Mayfield managed to get to his feet. His lower lip quivered as he spoke. ‘You can’t just leave me like this.’
‘I tell you what,’ Lambert said. ‘We’ll send a patrol car to cruise the marina at odd intervals. That should offer you some protection. Meanwhile, I’m sure you appreciate we have to get our skates on to get to Carmarthen. Friday evening traffic can be a problem.’
Lambert opened the door and gestured for Mayfield to exit. As he shuffled reluctantly out of the interview room, Mayfield asked if he was expected to walk back to the marina.
‘We can’t spare a vehicle now there’s been another major incident,’ Lambert said. ‘But it’s only a short walk from here to the marina. Oh, and we’ll check to see if they received that letter of yours at HQ.’
‘Because if they haven’t,’ Ellis added, ‘it could mean up to five years inside.’
They turned away from him dismissively, and Lambert spoke to Ellis for Mayfield’s benefit. ‘He’d better pray that letter’s not got lost in the post.’
FIVE
BEFORE LEAVING FOR Carmarthen, Lambert drove Ellis and Jones to Cockett Police Station where the incident room was situated. Detective Chief Superintendent Marden had driven over from HQ at Bridgend, and they found him waiting for them, perched on the corner of a desk, reading from an open folder.
Sitting at one of the desks, typing information into a computer, was DS Roger Hazel, and Lambert guessed he would be office manager, responsible for running the incident room. Hazel looked up briefly and caught his eye, and Lambert acknowledged him with a wave. Hazel was a sallow-complexioned man, thirty-five years old, with cropped dark hair, and a face of enormous gravity which belied his pleasing manner and sense of humour. He was good at his job, thorough and detailed in all his inputted information, and Lambert was pleased he’d been recruited to run the incident room.
Marden gave it a beat to finish what he was reading before standing, tucking the folder under his arm. He was an imposing man, six foot four and muscular, as if he pumped iron regularly, with a broad face, and a large hooked nose and thin lips, and eyes that shone like buttons. Whenever Lambert stared into his hawk-like face, he almost expected to find Marden had talons instead of hands.