The Wrecking Bar

by Meurig Jones

  ‘Running the institution was a man named Titmus, a convicted paedophile who abused many young boys in his care. He and another man, Gordon Mayfield, were sentenced to seven years and were paroled over two years ago.’

  Chislet stared distantly at some dark memory and remained silent.

  Ellis continued. ‘We’d like to know if you had any dealings with Titmus or Mayfield.’

  ‘Dealings?’

  Ellis looked directly at Chislet and nodded.

  ‘You want to know if those bastards abused me, is that it?’

  ‘Like they abused loads of youngsters in their care.’

  ‘Oh, they tried it on all right. Three of them there was. That bastard Titmus, Mayfield and another screw.’

  ‘Screw?’ Ellis questioned.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what we used to call them. I’d been locked up in this room as a punishment. It was where they kept some of the leisure equipment – table tennis table, an’ that. But it was more like a cell, with a bed in one corner and no windows. Anyway, I’d been locked up for giving this older boy a good kicking. They kept me locked up all day, with nothing to eat or drink, just waiting. I knew they was coming for me and I was ready for them. There was no way they was gonna to touch me.’

  DC Jones held her breath as she watched him relating his story, and she almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘So what happened?’ Ellis prompted.

  ‘They came in and locked the door. I said to them, “You touch me and one of you’s gonna lose an eye. I don’t care which one of you it is, but after today one of you fuckers’ll be blind in one eye.”’ Chislet held up a thumb and mimed gouging out an eye, his lips clamped together as he imagined it. ‘I showed them the thumb and told them how I was gonna enjoy seeing one of the fuckers squirm when he saw his eye in my hand. They left me alone after that.’

  Ellis was certain that Chislet, even at the tender age of thirteen, was quite capable of committing such an act.

  ‘Did they ever try again?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you: they left me alone. Picked on some other poor bastard.’

  Although it was hot standing in the sun, Jones shivered as she imagined a more vulnerable child in that situation.

  Chislet eyed them both shrewdly and said, ‘So you think I killed that bastard Titmus.’

  This took Ellis by surprise and he said rather lamely, ‘We’re just making enquiries.’

  Chislet laughed confidently. ‘Whoever killed those bastards should get a medal. And I don’t have a fucking alibi. So what you gonna do about it? Eh? You gonna fit me up for this one? Well, I’ll tell you something: if those fuckers had raped me, I’d have gone looking for them. But they didn’t, so it’s got nothing to do with me, has it?’

  ‘And there’s no one who can confirm that you were at home in the early hours of Friday? Neighbour? Someone who might have heard you?’

  Chislet laughed again, enjoying the situation. ‘I had my television on loud, watching some shit late-night film. My next-door neighbour might have heard it. But if I wanted an alibi, I could have left the TV on really loud, gone over to Swansea, killed Titmus, and that wouldn’t really be much of an alibi, would it? But there’s just one problem.’

  Chislet, a triumphant glint in his eye, waited for one of the detectives to cue him.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jones said.

  ‘I can’t fucking drive. I’ve never learnt. So how the fuck do I get over to Swansea in the middle of the night? Public transport?’ He laughed loudly. ‘If you’d checked with DVLA – and that’s in Swansea – you could have saved yourselves a journey. Call yourselves fucking detectives.’

  Ellis and Jones exchanged looks while Chislet’s mocking laughter grew. Ellis gave Chislet a cursory nod before getting back in the car. As Jones drove away, she looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Chislet staring after their car, holding up his middle finger to her.

  After a silent exit from the immediate neighbourhood, Jones muttered, ‘We got that one wrong.’

  Ellis shook his head. ‘He still had to be checked out. And some of these tough guys may not be licensed to drive legally, but they still know what to do when they get behind a wheel.’

  It sounded hollow, and he knew he was clutching at straws.

  The Cockett Inn was situated conveniently close to the police station. Normally Lambert would have chosen to drink somewhere a bit further from where he was based, but it had been a long day for all concerned, and the rest of his team wanted to get away.

  But not Lambert. Lousy flat. Fridge full of nothing. Nothing but crap on television. And nothing but the sound of his own thoughts for company. In other words, a big fat nothing.

  The team, wanting to be reasonably private in their conversation, thought the pub might be heaving. But it was only just gone seven, and the heavy drinking brigade from the afternoon shift had staggered off home, leaving only a few stalwarts at the bar, the kamikaze drinkers who would be talking nonsense by closing time, if not sooner. And the Saturday night shift was yet to arrive, so they were able to find a table that was relatively secluded.

  After they’d bagged their seats, Lambert gave Wallace a £20 note to get a round in.

  ‘I’ll give him a hand,’ Jones offered, and joined Wallace at the bar.

  ‘Shame Roger couldn’t make it,’ Ellis said as they sat.

  Lambert gave a throaty chuckle. ‘He told me how much his wife was looking forward to the show at the Grand tonight. If I’d insisted on his presence, I might be the next murder victim.’

  Ellis laughed politely and surreptitiously glanced at his watch. It had been an eventful two days, and he wanted to get home to see Sharon, who had nearly gone the full term in her pregnancy. But he felt this was part of his job, the way Lambert wanted to work it, knowing that a more relaxed discussion away from the incident room could produce ideas.

  Lambert saw him glancing at his watch and said, ‘I know you want to get home, Tony …’

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ Ellis jumped in, keen to show his commitment to the investigation. ‘Baby’s due very soon but I think I can spare another half hour.’

  Once Wallace and Jones arrived with the drinks, and they were all huddled around a table, Lambert kicked off the discussion.

  ‘This investigation,’ he began, ‘might not be as straightforward as it seems.’

  Frowning, Debbie Jones said, ‘Something to do with motive, d’you mean?’

  ‘No, the fact that whoever committed this crime wanted his victims to suffer seems to be a clear indication of some sort of revenge, either perpetrated by someone who was abused, or by someone who’s on some sort of ruthless crusade.’

  ‘Someone like that Norman McNeil,’ Wallace suggested.

  ‘Whoever it is has been scrupulous in not leaving any traces – fingerprints or DNA. Both murder weapons were clean, suggesting that gloves were worn. The only prints that were found on the boat belonged to the victim and Mayfield. Mayfield’s were on the handrail leading down to the cabin, where you’d expect them to be.’

  DC Jones leant forward on the table, claiming her boss’s attention. ‘OK, there were no traces on or around the boat. But it seems hard to believe they didn’t find anything outside Jarvis’s mobile home. Tyre marks or footprints. I seem to recall that was rough ground around there.’

  ‘All forensics found,’ Lambert said, ‘were his landlord’s more recent footprints. Between the time of Jarvis’s death and him finding the body, there had been two days of heavy rain. Any traces may have been washed clean.’

  Ellis said, ‘Either that or the killer’s clever enough not to leave any traces. Nothing too unusual in that, is there? These days—’

  ‘But,’ Jones interjected, ‘if he’d been wearing something like latex gloves, or any kind of gloves, that would have looked pretty suspicious to the victims.’

  Lambert smiled. ‘Earlier on I joked to Debbie about the killer saying something like his dermatitis was playing him up, but there could be an element
of truth in that.’

  ‘Then he’s offered a beer,’ Wallace added. ‘And he doesn’t open it because he knows enough about DNA in saliva. Or it was simply because he doesn’t want it to look like the victim had a visitor who knew him.’

  Almost as if he was talking to himself, Lambert spoke softly. ‘The killer arrives at his intended victim’s place, presumably by car, and he’s probably masquerading as another sex offender. He has a bag with him, inside of which is concealed the weapon, but his victims think he has something for them. Maybe youngsters’ addresses from the internet. He’s offered a beer, which he doesn’t open. Presumably he entices them to open and look in the bag which he has placed on the floor. While they bend over to look inside, he knocks them unconscious. When they come round, they discover they’ve been stripped and trussed up, and then he tortures them by pouring sulphuric acid on their genitals. Incidentally, the post mortem result on Titmus revealed that he died from a heart attack, probably brought about by the excessive burning pain from the sulphuric acid.’

  ‘So why the head injuries if the victim’s already dead?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘Presumably,’ Lambert answered, ‘that’s his MO, which Debbie suggested earlier might have something to do with a frenzied crime following an abuse. Possibly an unsolved from years ago.’

  ‘Debbie’s already checked with HOLMES,’ Ellis said, ‘and there’s no match.’

  Debbie Jones gestured by turning her hands palms up as she looked at Lambert. ‘So what about this case not being straightforward?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Wallace agreed. ‘A revenge motive with dozens of suspects. Maybe hundreds. Seems pretty straightforward so far.’

  Lambert took a long swig of beer before speaking. ‘Titmus and Mayfield were paroled at roughly the same time, just over two years ago. And Jarvis Thomas had been at large for a lot longer. So whoever had committed these crimes waited a long time to get their revenge.’

  ‘And all this kicked off with the Sun revelations,’ Ellis said.

  ‘It goes back further than that, Tony.’

  ‘The TV documentary?’

  Lambert nodded. ‘And now this TV researcher who worked on the documentary has been charged with downloading child porn. Even the newspapers have picked up on the connection. So I think tomorrow I’ll have a word with him and see where it takes us.’

  Ellis’s mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. ‘He’ll have the gentlemen of the press camped out on his doorstep.’

  ‘That happened on Thursday. Hopefully they’ll have got their story and photos by now. And I think first thing Monday I need to appeal via the media for anyone who might identify the purchaser of the wrecking bar bought at Llanelli B & Q.’

  Wallace put on a glum expression. ‘Yeah, that was a bloody bind. The guy who sold it him turns out to be a retard.’

  Jones glared at him. ‘Kevin!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t use words like that these days to describe someone with a disability.’

  Lambert smiled thinly and shook his head. Wallace still had a hell of a lot to learn. He pushed his empty pint glass towards him.

  ‘Your round I believe, Kevin.’

  TWELVE

  HE MOVED THE curtain a fraction and peered through the crack. Earlier on there had been two photographers hanging around. These were the ones hoping for something a little bit extra. The others got what they came for two nights ago: photos of him running from the car, hands hiding his face, scrambling to get the key in the door, the whirr, click and flash of a whole barrage of paparazzi as he slammed the front door closed.

  Now the street was quiet outside and there didn’t appear to be any photographers or reporters lurking about. The sky was black with just a faint glimmer of pink from where the sun had disappeared as night descended rapidly.

  Even though the last remaining photographer had gone, he was still a prisoner in his own home. The neighbours would have heard all about it. How the hell was he going to get out? He’d eventually run out of food. And drink. He needed a drink now. Christ, did he need it!

  First he sent her a text from his mobile. He couldn’t risk phoning, it was out of the question. But in all the time since he’d been released and allowed to come home, surely she could have found time to ring him. So why hadn’t she rung or even sent him a message? Perhaps she believed all of it was true and was cutting him loose.

  After he’d sent her a brief text, asking her to call him urgently, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a large single malt whisky, adding plenty of ice. He went back into the living room, sank heavily on to an easy chair and swallowed a large amount of cleansing alcohol.

  He surveyed his living room with sadness. He’d been happy here, and enjoyed seeing the house gradually taking shape. He remembered the first time he saw the cottage just over two years ago, how it became love at first sight. It was on the small side, and should have been part of a terrace of similar cottages, but was separated from the terrace by a wide lane and right of way to a public footpath at the back, and was detached. Seeing it for the first time from the outside, he knew at once he was going to make an offer on it, as long as the inside was in reasonable shape.

  And the cottage was more than just a residence. It had become their love nest, with afternoons or evenings full of passion, followed by such contentment, never thinking it would end, and often making plans for the future, when she would eventually be his.

  Now all that had vanished, leaving him with nothing but empty, negative emotions. His self-pity grew as he sipped his drink and thought about the pleasures of the past. He finished the whisky, returned to the kitchen and poured himself another. Back in the living room, he peered through a gap in the curtains. Everything was quiet and peaceful outside; exactly as it was before the press pack descended. Having got their sensational pictures, the paparazzi had vanished into the night, and the Sunday newspapers had already gone to bed with tomorrow’s scandal.

  Even though the nights were quite chilly now, he loved going out to the garden for as long as he could stand the cold. And, as it was dark, he thought he might sit out there undisturbed and drink himself into oblivion without bothering about the temperature.

  He never locked the side gate; there was no need in this district. And the reporters and photographers hadn’t attempted to enter the back garden, probably because of the privacy laws, even though the story was considered to be in the public interest.

  But for now he could venture outside, perhaps for the last time. Daytime was out of the question, as the public right of way at the back overlooked the garden. Now he was imprisoned, suffering a shameful banishment from society, and would eventually have to move from the district.

  The back door was through the kitchen and he picked up the whisky bottle on his way through. He opened the door and stepped outside, breathing the sweet smell of damp grass.

  A dark shadow caught his eye, and he was aware of a swift rustling sound and a swish as something painful screeched through his brain, and the bottle of whisky fell from his grasp with a crash.

  An intense pain beat in his head as he came round. He wanted to take a deep gulp of air through his mouth but found it difficult to breathe. His mouth was obstructed by something sticky and the plastic smell was nauseating. As he forced open his eyes, with no memory of what had happened, he found he was staring into the face of his captor.

  At first he was puzzled. Why was this happening to him? And then he realized he was tied to one of his upright chairs and he was stark naked. Why had he been stripped? He couldn’t understand what was going on. Suddenly, the cold understanding of his predicament stirred the fear inside him and his body began to shake uncontrollably. He tried to speak, but the gag was too tight, and all that he could hear were his own muffled cries of terror.

  He saw his captor had a holdall bag at his feet, out of which he took a large metal bar which he placed on the floor. Jesus Christ! He remembered the murders of those men on the news. Beaten to deat
h with a metal bar. And this man thought he was one of them. Jesus! No! If only he could speak. Tell him!

  This is a mistake!

  Why are you doing this?

  The man wore surgical gloves, and his movements were precise, like a surgeon preparing for an operation. Bending over, taking a bottle out of the bag and unscrewing the top.

  What the hell was that? Some sort of liquid.

  And then he realized what was about to happen, and why he was naked.

  Dear God! No!

  If only he’d give him the chance to speak, he could tell him. Tell him he was wrong. So wrong. But all he could hear were his own cries of fear, muffled and useless as he tried to signal with his eyes that it was all a mistake.

  Moving closer now. Tilting the bottle. Getting ready to pour.

  Please, dear God! Please! No!

  THIRTEEN

  THE SUDDEN BANAL chatter of a radio presenter dragged Lambert from an alcohol-heavy sleep. He blinked and stared at the radio alarm. Seven o’clock, on the dot. His brain was fuzzy as he struggled to recall recent events. So much had happened in such a short space of time. And he couldn’t even remember setting the alarm the previous night. Following the discussion at the Cockett Inn, he had returned to his own local in the Mumbles area and continued boozing until closing time, which he now regretted, especially as he needed to continue the investigation, Sunday or not.

  He groaned as he swung himself out of bed, and then slipped into his dressing gown before going into the bathroom and turning on the bath taps. While it was running he made himself strong fresh coffee, returned to the bathroom to turn off the taps, and went into the living room.

  For days now he hadn’t checked the emails on his laptop, which lay sleek and anachronistic on top of the late-1940s heavy oak dining table in a flat furnished by a landlord with a taste for post-war austerity.

  While he switched on the laptop and waited for it to boot up, he sipped his coffee and tried to focus his thoughts on the investigation, hoping that – as sometimes happened – a troubled sleep and a bombardment of ideas would pay dividends. But all he felt this morning was a muddled, washed-out feeling, and he almost wished he’d never chosen policing as a career.