by Meurig Jones
He clicked on to Internet Explorer and saw there were ten emails waiting to be read. He opened them up and there was one which immediately caught his eye. It was from his sister’s husband in Australia. The message had been sent five hours ago, about lunchtime that side of the world. There was an attachment, but first he clicked open the message and read:
Dear Harry
I’m sorry if this comes as a shock. I don’t know if Angela had told you of her illness, but for the past six months she was having chemotherapy for cancer, which worked for a while. Then the cancer spread to her liver, and she went rapidly downhill after that. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Angela died yesterday.
I know you two haven’t been close over the years, other than exchanging the occasional card, but I’m sure you would want to know.
If it’s any consolation, she died peacefully here in her home, surrounded by her friends.
Of course, other than you, she had no family, but her friends were very loyal, and I think of myself as her closest friend as well as her loyal husband and the only true family she could relate to, and I shall miss her terribly. Sadly, we were never blessed with children.
The funeral is on Tuesday. If you want to telegraph flowers and a message, I’ve attached the address details to this email.
Once again, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, and I wish you luck for the future.
Gary.
Lambert stared at the screen, his mind numb and unmoved by the message, which was about a woman he had never known; a total stranger. His thoughts were clouded by something so nebulous that he could feel nothing but a distant sadness for the brother-in-law he had barely known.
After closing down his laptop, he took his mug of coffee with him to finish in the bath. As he lay trying to soak off the dirty, unwashed feeling from a restless night and investigating mind-blowing crimes, he thought about Angela, knowing the truth about his sister would forever elude him. It pained him to think about it and he screwed his eyes closed. The warmth of the bath water brought him little comfort as he thought about her, wondering if she might have confided to her husband about the past and her relationship with their father. But he knew he would never get in touch. All he and Gary had in common was his sister. And now she was gone. There would be no point in contacting him. Ever.
As soon as he arrived at the road in Cowbridge in which Mark Yalding lived, Lambert took great care to park a little way away from his house. The houses in the street were only on one side, and where Lambert was parked on the opposite side was a wire fence bordering allotments. On the far side of the allotment, Lambert could see a man in khaki shorts and a blue vest digging with a fork. He didn’t get out of the car immediately, but sat watching and waiting, just in case there were reporters still keeping an eye on the place. But all seemed to be quiet.
He switched off the engine and watched the house for a moment. About ten or fifteen yards in front of him was a parked Honda Civic, and in front of that was a Land Rover Freelander, parked diagonally opposite Yalding’s house. The road sloped, giving Lambert’s Mercedes more height, so that he could observe the Land Rover over the height of the Honda; but he couldn’t make out if anyone was inside it, mainly because of the height of the four-by-four and its spare tyre on the back. But something, maybe it was a gut feeling, told him to sit tight and wait.
It was another cloudless day, and now that he’d switched the engine off along with the air conditioning, the sun’s rays burnt through the glass and the temperature began to rise rapidly. He clicked the ignition key forward and let the window down.
His thoughts on the drive over to Cowbridge had been mainly about Angela and his father, so he had given little consideration as to how he intended to interview Yalding. Now he thought about it, he realized that if the TV researcher had all along protested his innocence, however far fetched and unlikely his story was, he would in all probability be open to talking about his dilemma.
Still no sign of life from the Land Rover. Perhaps it belonged to someone from one of the other cottages. Lambert moved to open the door.
He froze, hoping whoever was getting out of the Land Rover didn’t look back and see him. And then she emerged, walking hesitantly towards Yalding’s cottage.
She was blonde, and he guessed she could have been in her late forties or early fifties maybe. She was what Lambert would describe as petite, with beautifully slim legs in tight blue jeans that looked brand new, and she wore a light blue T-shirt with some sort of design on the front, but she was too far away for him to see the motif clearly. He couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, but her bright red lipstick seemed to accentuate a pale skin. Even from a distance, Lambert could see she was attractive.
She stopped at Yalding’s gate and looked around tentatively before deciding to approach his front door along the short, narrow path. With more determination now, she raised the brass knocker and knocked twice.
Lambert heard the clacking sound and watched as she stepped back away from the door and looked expectantly at the windows, also craning her neck back to look at the upstairs windows.
After waiting for less than a minute, she knocked twice again, but still no one answered. He saw her delve into her jeans pocket and bring out a mobile phone, and watched her scrolling for a number. She put the phone to her ear and listened for a minute. He watched carefully to see if her lips moved, but she abandoned the call without leaving a message and tucked the mobile back into her pocket.
Taking one last, and clearly hopeful, look back at the cottage, she crossed the road and got back into her Land Rover. Then she did a three-point turn in the road and drove back past Lambert’s Mercedes. He ducked out of sight.
As soon as she had driven away, Lambert got out of the car and hurried towards Yalding’s cottage. There didn’t seem much point in knocking on the door the same as Yalding’s visitor had, so he went straight to the side gate and tried it. It wasn’t locked, and he swung it open quickly and hurried around the back.
He stopped at the back door, wondering whether or not he should try entering. He thought he could smell alcohol, and his attention was drawn to some broken glass that looked like a broken whisky bottle that had been dropped near the door.
A tremor of shallow breath rippled in his chest as excitement and fear surged through his body. He thought about entering but stood frozen to the spot, staring at the back door, almost as if he expected it to open of its own accord. His mouth felt dry and he was fearful of what he almost certainly knew he would find, although a slightly more optimistic voice in his head told him he could be wrong.
But first he went back to his car and fetched a pair of latex gloves which he kept in the glove compartment. When he returned to the rear of the cottage he didn’t hesitate. After putting on the gloves, he turned the doorknob on the back door and pushed. It wasn’t locked. He eased it open and entered the kitchen.
He took a deep breath, hoping to overcome his fear, which was uncoiling in his stomach like a spring. He crossed the kitchen, his eyes quickly scanning the work surface with its clutter of utensils, but not really taking it in as he stared at the open door leading to the living room, dreading the horror of what he knew he was about to face. As he walked cautiously towards the open door, he could almost imagine he was being beckoned by a malignant force, and his leg movements felt unreal, as if they belonged to someone else. But this time he felt no nausea; no waves of panic. In spite of the bloody mess on the carpet, and the naked body trussed up in the chair, genitals mutilated, and brains spilling out from the battered head, he felt he could cope this time.
He knew he’d have to call headquarters soon and get the crime scene people out here. But first he needed to get details of that last telephone call before someone else rang. He avoided looking directly at the corpse, and his eyes darted around the room, focusing on a cordless phone, fitted to its cradle, on a mahogany occasional table under the window.
It was a small room, and the phone was within easy reach. A
voiding the pool of blood on the carpet, he walked over, grabbed the phone and dialled 1-4-7-1. Right away the automatic female voice told him the last call was made the previous evening at 17.00 hours and the caller had withheld the number. Either someone had called via a company switchboard or the number had been deliberately withheld. Perhaps it was the former, another reporter trying to contact Yalding from a newspaper office.
Lambert replaced the phone in its cradle and thought about the woman who had visited a few minutes ago. She must either have been calling someone else or ringing him on his mobile.
Then the image suddenly struck him. His brain must have automatically registered it when he entered, and he dashed back into the kitchen. There was the victim’s mobile phone, lying on the surface near the inbuilt hob, surrounded by a corkscrew, half-empty bottle of red wine, a tray of melted ice cubes and the screw-top from the whisky bottle.
He picked the phone up, pressed the main menu button, went to the log and missed calls section and clicked the button. The last call was from someone called Rhi, timed at less than ten minutes ago.
He took out his pen and a small notebook from his breast pocket and copied the name and number. Then he clicked off the mobile and left it where he’d found it.
Breathing deeply to calm himself, he went out into the garden for some fresh air, and called headquarters with details of the crime. Pretty soon this quiet area would be swarming with police, and not long after it would be the focus of the entire UK.
Lambert thought back to Friday lunchtime, when he received Marden’s call, followed by three brutal murder scenes in less than forty-eight hours. It had to be some sort of record.
FOURTEEN
WHILE LAMBERT WAITED for SOCO to arrive, he thought about Yalding’s recent visitor.
Rhi!
It was a strange name, sounding more like a nickname or pet name. Or maybe it was short for something. Rhiannon, perhaps? A traditional Welsh name, and one that inspired the song by Fleetwood Mac.
He punched in her number on his mobile. It rang for some time, and he realized she was probably driving her vehicle, unless she lived close by. He didn’t think leaving a message on her voicemail was a good idea, and was about to hang up when he heard the phone click, the sound of a car engine and her voice, urgent and high-pitched.
‘Hello! Who is it?’
‘Is that Rhiannon?’
‘Yes, yes! Who is that?’
He’d guessed right about the name.
‘This is Detective Inspector Harry Lambert of South Wales Police.’
‘What?’ she yelled.
‘I want to talk to you about Mark Yalding.’
There was a slight pause before she said, ‘Just a minute. I’m going to pull over.’
Lambert smiled to himself, wondering whether to admonish her for using a mobile while driving, then thought better of it. After all, in the great scheme of things, what did a crime like talking on a phone while driving matter when weighed against brutal serial killings?
When she came back on the phone, she said, ‘What’s this about?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Lambert cleared his throat softly. ‘I want to talk to you about your friend, Mark Yalding.’
There was another pause before she said, ‘He’s not really a friend as such. I do know him, of course.’
Lambert decided to cut to the chase. ‘You were round at his place about fifteen minutes ago. I saw you there, and you also tried to ring him.’ She was silent at the other end. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here. But what’s this all about?’
‘I need to talk to you urgently. Give me your address and I’ll come over.’
‘You can’t come to my place.’ There was a tremor of panic in her voice. ‘You really can’t. Look, I’ll make some excuse later today and meet you somewhere. A café or a pub.’
‘Do you know the Wheelwright’s Arms, about halfway between Cowbridge and Bridgend?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Can you meet me there at, say, two o’clock?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘I think you need to do more than try. Unless you want me to pay you a visit.’
Her voice suddenly became strident. ‘Look … all right … I’ll be there. But how will I recognize you?’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll recognize you.’
A distant wail of sirens alerted him to the approach of police cars screaming towards the crime scene. He closed the phone hurriedly, before she heard them. Obviously she didn’t know her friend was dead, and Lambert wanted to be the one to confront her with the news, judge her reaction and find out what her relationship was with the victim.
And, of course, discover her identity.
‘More of the same,’ was Hughie’s comment. ‘The third in less than two days. Although, strictly speaking, the one in Carmarthen had been dead for a week. How come you found this one?’
Hughie studied Lambert carefully as he answered.
‘I came out here to interview him in relation to the investigation. There was no reply from the front door, so I came round the back and found the broken whisky bottle. It seemed suspicious, so I stuck on a pair of gloves, tried the door and found it was unlocked.’
‘And that’s when you hit on yet another dead paedophile.’
Lambert shook his head. ‘There’s no evidence the victim was a paedophile. He’s got no record of any sex offences. In fact, he’s got no police record of any sort.’
‘What about his arrest for downloading child pornography on the internet?’
Lambert shifted out of the way of one of the SOCO team, and there was another flash from the police photographer as the corpse was photographed from another angle.
‘It seems odd,’ Lambert said, and left it at that. ‘Mind if I take a look upstairs?’
‘Be my guest.’
Lambert started to leave the room, and then turned back as he thought of something else.
‘Hughie, you searched through the victim’s trouser pockets yet?’
‘Nothing in them. Empty.’
Lambert nodded thoughtfully, went out into the small hallway and climbed the narrow stairs. On the wall were framed photographs of various television productions, some of which showed the victim with his arms about an actor or a crew member, smiling and confident.
Lambert stopped and studied the victim’s face. Yalding was in his late thirties, he guessed, had slightly receding, pepper and salt hair, and a pleasant, boyish face. He looked too wholesome to be a man taking initial steps towards child abuse, but then Lambert knew child abusers didn’t always come from the same mould.
He carried on up the stairs. At the top, to the left and back of the cottage, was a reasonable size bathroom. There were two more rooms, and the first was a small bedroom being used as an office. The computer workstation had a flat-screen monitor on it, and an all-in-one scanner, printer and copier, but the tower computer was missing, having been confiscated by the police.
Lambert looked through the first workstation drawer but found it contained mostly spare ink cartridges and items of stationery, and very little else of interest. But the contents of the next drawer down were more interesting as it contained scraps of paper and notepads with names, phone numbers, websites and email addresses. Hopefully, there might be some revealing information here, and because all this private paperwork wasn’t too near the body, Lambert didn’t think it needed bagging by forensics. He could get Tony and Kevin to sift through this lot, to see what they could find. But what he was looking for right now was something far more personal, and he thought he might find it in the main bedroom.
As he entered Yalding’s bedroom, Lambert smelled stale sweat locked in the airless room. The window was closed tight and clothes lay strewn across the floor, but the rest of the room appeared to be reasonably neat, perhaps indicating that Yalding’s recen
tly distraught state had made him careless in his hygiene. But what Lambert was most interested in checking were the bedside tables either side of the double bed, one of which – the one furthest from the door – was empty. On the other table lay some loose change, a bunch of keys and a packet of chewing gum. But there was no wallet. Not in the trousers the victim was wearing, nor on the bedside table with the rest of the contents of his pocket.
Lambert moved to the built-in wardrobe with a single sliding door that had been left open and rummaged among the victim’s jackets, searching for his wallet, although he doubted he’d find anything.
Having been through the victim’s entire wardrobe and finding nothing, Lambert returned to the living room, and found Dave, the crime scene manager, talking to Hughie about the press pack that had already begun to arrive in the street outside.
‘With the other two murders,’ Lambert interrupted, ‘we found wallets and we were able to identify the victims immediately. But we’ve found no wallet on the victim this time. And I’ve searched most of the house and found nothing.’
Dave raised a finger to make a point. ‘Not all blokes carry wallets. Some just keep their folding stuff in a pocket.’
‘So where is the folding stuff belonging to the victim? He’s emptied the contents of his trouser pockets upstairs by the bed, and there was only some loose change. There’s no paper money, and there are no credit or debit cards.’
Hughie scratched his cheek thoughtfully with his gloved hand, making a rubbery sound. ‘Are you suggesting the perpetrator stole the wallet this time?’
‘Yes, although I don’t think the motive was robbery. I think the killer knew there was something in the wallet he didn’t want us to find.’
Lambert’s mobile rang and he stepped out into the kitchen to answer it. It was DCS Marden.