The Wrecking Bar

by Meurig Jones

  ‘Not even to visit?’

  Lambert got up, shaking his head. ‘A person I didn’t know. A stranger that’s just cost me sixty quid in flowers.’

  Like a dog shaking off the wet, he gave her a sudden grin, which she interpreted as her boss’s way of saying ‘life goes on’.

  ‘Come on, Debbie, we need to get on the road back to Cowbridge.’

  ‘We’re going to the crime scene?’

  ‘No. There’s someone we need to meet.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To a pub. Life’s not all work and no play, you know.’

  During the drive to the Wheelwright’s Arms, Lambert told Debbie about Yalding’s female visitor and the conversation he had with her on the phone. After he’d finished, he asked, ‘What does the name Rhiannon mean to you?’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s a good Welsh name. Apart from that …’ She pouted and shrugged.

  Lambert chuckled. ‘Too young to remember Fleetwood Mac?’

  ‘Oh, I think I’ve heard of them.’

  ‘Philistine!’

  She could have sworn he was flirting with her and wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or not. One half of her liked the attention, and there was also the chance of job advancement from being favoured by the boss. On the other hand, it could be dangerous. If it went too far and she turned him down, that could lead to all kinds of complications. Far better to keep it on a professional level.

  ‘What has this woman got to do with Fleetwood Mac?’

  ‘Probably nothing. They had a bit of a hit with “Rhiannon” in the mid seventies. This woman would probably have been born in the early sixties. I’m only guessing, but I would put her age as late forties maybe.’

  ‘So her parents chose the name because it was a traditional Welsh name, not because it was a song from a favourite band. Is that relevant in any way?’

  ‘It might tell us something about her background. Her parents were probably quite well-to-do. Intellectuals. Cultured. A bit posh, maybe.’

  ‘Because they chose a traditional Welsh name?’

  ‘The name comes from The Mabinogion, an old Welsh book dating back centuries, and I think Rhiannon was a princess.’

  ‘Have you ever read it?’

  ‘I started it but didn’t get very far. It’s all that sword and sorcery nonsense, which I can’t stand, literature or not. But my point is this: if this Rhiannon’s parents had lived in a council house in the Valleys, she might have been called Sharon or Tracey. Names are sometimes great indicators of a person’s background.’

  ‘Is that why Jordan went back to being Katie Price?’

  ‘Probably. Now she realizes all the chavs have adopted the name. I know that sounds like a generalization – and it probably is when it comes to names like yours and mine. But a pound to a penny says that a pre-Fleetwood Mac Rhiannon comes from a very good family. And what about you, Debbie?’

  The abrupt change confused her. ‘What about me?’

  ‘I’ve never asked you before: you’re half Welsh and half Asian, yes?’

  She wondered where this was heading.

  ‘My father’s Welsh. And my mother’s father was Welsh, but her mother was Indian. My grandmother came from Bombay, now known as Mumbai.’

  ‘So your mother’s maiden name would have been Welsh rather than Indian?’

  ‘Not unless you think Sinclair is Welsh.’

  Lambert chuckled to himself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I was just thinking how easy it is to find out a person’s maiden name without them attaching any significance to it.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I follow what you mean.’

  ‘Hang on, Debbie, I think this is the turn-off.’

  He started to brake before a turning on the right, with a signpost indicating that it was two miles to the next village, and a huge square board in the corner of a field, showing the Wheelwright’s Arms was 100 yards from the main road.

  The large pub was set back off the B road, up on a hill, with a car park at the front. It looked as if it had been converted into a pub rather than purpose built, and might once have been the property of a rich landowner in the early part of the twentieth century. The beer garden at the side was fairly crowded, not only with families, as there was a play area for children, but also with serious drinkers who were able to smoke outside and sit beneath large mushroom-shaped gas heaters.

  Lambert managed to find a space in the car park, letting Jones get out before he squeezed his Mercedes into a narrow gap between an enormous Toyota four-by-four and a Renault Espace.

  As they walked towards the pub’s entrance, Lambert said, ‘Let’s find a place to sit inside, shall we? And I think we’ve got time for a bite to eat. We’ve got forty-five minutes before she gets here.’

  ‘That’s if she turns up.’

  ‘I think she will. She doesn’t want us at her place for obvious reasons.’

  ‘But we don’t know where she lives.’

  ‘We’ve got her first name and mobile number. It won’t take much to find out.’

  It seemed gloomy inside the pub, but that was probably because of the stark contrast between sunshine and a dark interior. The place was doing a roaring trade, and most of the customers being served at the bar were loading their drinks on to trays to take outside. Lambert found a corner table that was free and picked up a menu.

  ‘I’ll buy lunch,’ he told Jones, glancing hurriedly at the menu. ‘Ham, egg and chips’ll do me.’ He handed her the menu. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll have the same.’

  ‘And what would you like to drink?’

  ‘I’ll have a soft drink. J2O or something similar.’

  While Lambert ordered at the bar, Jones sat and thought about the murder of Yalding. She wondered how this Rhiannon would take the news. If Yalding was her lover, badly she guessed. Was this why Lambert wanted her along, as the more compassionate one of the two detectives, offering comfort and sympathy to the grieving lover?

  As Lambert carried the drinks over, he saw the heavy frown on the young DC’s face and guessed what she was thinking.

  ‘I’m sorry, Debbie, but I need you to do the woman-to-woman bit and give her a shoulder to cry on. It’s not going to be fun in such a public place. But as we can’t go to her home, there’s little we can do about that.’

  She noticed how weary her boss seemed, the strain of too much death showing in the tiredness about his eyes and the pale, waxy texture of his skin.

  She raised her glass. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Yeah, cheers!’

  She watched him knock back a good half of his pint of bitter, and was amazed to see the sudden recovery, as if the drink had pumped fresh life into him, and a bit of colour flooded back into his cheeks.

  ‘So when are you going to tell her about the murder?’ she said.

  ‘After I’ve got enough information about Yalding and her relationship with him.’

  While Tony Ellis thoroughly examined the contents of Yalding’s desk upstairs in the cottage, Kevin Wallace went house-to-house knocking on doors, as did a uniformed constable in the opposite direction.

  The first two cottages Wallace called at there was no reply. He made a note of the numbers so that he wouldn’t overlook calling back, when hopefully there might be someone in. When he knocked at the third cottage, a dog began barking furiously. There was a long pause while he heard doors opening and closing and a voice reassuring the dog that all was well. And then the front door was opened by a short, elderly man, probably no taller than Ronnie Corbett and not dissimilar in looks. He smiled as he looked up at Wallace and the detective thought he saw a triumphant glint in his eyes.

  ‘Ah! I wondered when you’d get around to it.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘To ask the neighbours if they’d seen anything unusual; anything suspicious.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘I might have. Which begs the question: why didn’t I approach yo
u with what I know? Why have I waited for you to call on me?’

  Wallace gritted his teeth impatiently. He was in no mood to play games.

  ‘I really don’t know, sir. But I’d be grateful if you could tell me if you’ve seen anything suspicious.’

  ‘I lived in Cardiff most of my life. Remember that knife murder in Roath Park early one morning, when a young nurse was on her way to work an early shift?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I remember that one.’

  ‘It must have been before your time. Back in 1978. I was a park keeper there. And although I wasn’t working that early, I saw a suspicious-looking bloke hanging around at other times. So when I approached the police to tell them about it, know what they said?’

  Even though he felt like throttling the little squirt, Wallace kept deadpan and shook his head.

  ‘They said: “It’s all right, sir. We’ve got everything in hand.” They didn’t want to know what I’d seen. They weren’t interested. Consequently, they got the wrong bloke. A miscarriage of justice it was. He was let out in 1990 and probably got a huge compensation.’

  Wallace let his breath out slowly, telling himself to keep calm.

  ‘I think you’ll find that police methods have changed for the better in recent years, sir.’

  ‘Huh!’ the man exclaimed with a laugh.

  ‘So if you did see anything suspicious last night,’ Wallace said, ‘I’d be grateful if you could let me have the details.’

  ‘I took Benjie – that’s my dog – out for his constitutional a bit later than usual last night. Must have been about half eleven. When I got back I noticed this white van parked almost opposite his house.’

  Wallace felt a ripple of excitement in the pit of his stomach. ‘And why was this unusual?’

  ‘Because I know all the neighbours’ cars, and nobody’s got a small white van like that. Kerry up at number sixteen’s got a large blue van cos he’s a mechanic, but no one else has got a van.’

  ‘What time did you start out to walk the dog?’

  ‘Just before half eleven. I’d been watching a film on TV, otherwise I’d have taken Benjie earlier.’

  ‘And was the van there when you started out?’

  ‘No, it was there when I got back. That’s why I noticed it. I thought it was strange arriving that late, seeing as it didn’t belong to anyone in our road. And I thought there was someone sitting inside the van.’

  ‘You saw someone?’

  ‘I felt there was someone there. Then when I came indoors, I didn’t put the light on and I went and peeked through the front window. That’s when I saw him getting out of the van.’

  Wallace felt the excitement rising in his chest.

  ‘You saw someone? Where did he go?’

  ‘I think he went to that Mark Yalding’s cottage. He was going in that direction. I couldn’t be certain from the angle I was looking.’

  ‘This man: what did he look like?’

  ‘Hard to tell. It was dark.’

  ‘How tall d’you think he was?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘What about his hair colour?’

  ‘He might have had dark hair. But all I could see was this man in the shadows, just a dark figure crossing the road. I only saw him for a few seconds, like. And he was carrying something.’

  ‘A bag of some sort?’

  ‘Yeah. It might have been one of those – um – sports bags.’

  Wallace knew this had to be the killer. Trying not to show the excitement building inside him, he asked the man for his name.

  ‘It’s Williams. Ian Williams.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Williams, that’s been a great help. We might require you to make a statement later on.’

  Williams nodded and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. ‘That was the killer, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Wallace replied.

  ‘Go on. It has to be him. The white van man.’ Williams chuckled to himself.

  ‘What did you do,’ Wallace asked, ‘after you’d seen this man going towards Yalding’s cottage?’

  ‘Do? I just went to bed.’

  ‘And thought no more about it?’

  ‘Well, I never thought it was a murderer, did I? Otherwise I’d have been on to the police. Don’t talk daft.’

  ‘So who did you think this man might have been?’

  ‘How the bloody hell should I know? It could have been a friend of Mr Yalding, coming to stay with him. That’s why he had a bag.’

  ‘OK, Mr Williams, you’ve been a great help. We might be in touch later.’

  As he walked away from the cottage, Wallace heard the smugness in Williams’s voice as he called after him:

  ‘Good job you come looking for me then, wasn’t it?’

  As Wallace hurried back, ducking under the police tape surrounding Yalding’s cottage, reporters and photographers surged forward, and he ‘no commented’ them with a wave of a hand.

  But one of the reporters, a shrewd operator who had observed Wallace talking for quite some time to one of the victim’s neighbours, thought he’d wait until the rest of the pack were distracted by the statement from Detective Chief Superintendent Marden before making his move.

  They had only just finished their meal when Lambert spotted her entering. She hovered nervously near the entrance, eyes scanning the tables, clearly hoping someone would approach her soon.

  Lambert rose and moved towards her. ‘Rhiannon?’

  She nodded, and Lambert thought he detected fear in her eyes, a foreboding of bad news.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You told me your name on the phone but …’

  ‘It’s Detective Inspector Lambert, South Wales CID.’ He gestured for her to move towards their table. ‘And this is Detective Constable Jones.’

  She gave Debbie Jones a brief nod before sitting.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Lambert offered.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a dry white wine.’

  DC Jones stood up quickly. ‘I’ll get it.’

  While she went to get the drink, Lambert sat back in his chair and gave the woman an understanding smile, intimating he was a man of the world and her infidelity was of little consequence.

  When he had watched her outside Yalding’s cottage, he had noticed how attractive she was, but now that he was close to her he was overwhelmed by her classical beauty. Her pale complexion, high cheekbones and swan-like neck gave her an artistic elegance, as if she had stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, and her light auburn hair, which had looked blonde in the distance, added sensuality to her attractiveness. She wore a light beige lipstick and lightly applied emerald eye shadow, which highlighted her green eyes.

  Lambert observed her change of clothing. She had gone home and changed into white trousers and a green, sleeveless shirt. Her engagement ring sparkled extravagantly, and her platinum wedding ring was discreetly thin. And the thin wristwatch she wore looked as if it might be expensive.

  She glanced apprehensively around the bar before speaking. ‘Do you mind telling me what this is all about?’

  Her dialect, he noticed, was what he would describe as ‘posh Welsh’, a hybrid practised by Dylan Thomas and Richard Burton, speaking with a sing-song lilt of the Valleys but adopting the high-class vowels of Oxford.

  ‘I want to talk to you about Mark Yalding. Is he a close friend of yours?’

  ‘Is this to do with that nonsense about the internet pornography?’

  ‘What makes you think it’s nonsense?’

  ‘I just know Mark isn’t like that.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I just know.’

  ‘So would you be prepared to stand up in court in his defence and swear to his innocence?’

  She paused, staring down at the table. ‘It shouldn’t even go to court.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the pornography was downloaded from his computer and paid for with his credit card.’

  She frowned hard, con
centrating on a single thought, until something seemed to click in her brain. ‘If he’s been charged and scheduled to appear in court, what were you doing watching his place? And why do you need to speak to me?’

  Lambert suddenly found himself on the receiving end of the awkward questions. Fortunately, DC Jones arrived with the white wine.

  The woman thanked her in Welsh. ‘Diolch yn fawr.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ DC Jones said as she sat, exchanging a brief look with her boss.

  ‘You seem utterly convinced Mark Yalding is innocent of the child pornography charge,’ Lambert said. ‘So how well do you know him?’

  ‘Can you accept that I know him well and leave it at that?’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  She hesitated. ‘I – I’ve known him for about two years.’

  ‘That’s not long, is it, to be so certain about what goes on in someone’s private life?’ Lambert sighed impatiently. ‘You’re obviously married, and you don’t want your husband to know about this meeting. Is there a reason for that?’

  Again, the hesitation. ‘He – he’s a very jealous man.’

  ‘And has he got a reason to be jealous?’

  Instead of replying, she held her glass to the light, sniffed it as though she was an expert wine taster, and took a small sip. The two detectives watched her, waiting for an answer.

  Staring into her wine glass to avoid eye contact with them, she said, ‘Mark and I are lovers, which is why I find that business about child pornography hard to believe.’

  DC Jones prompted her gently. ‘Because you both have a good sex life?’

  She nodded.

  Lambert decided it was time to change tactics.

  ‘What does your husband do?’

  She hadn’t been expecting this question and was thrown by it.

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Yes. What does he do for a living?’

  ‘He has his own business.’

  ‘What line of business?’

  ‘What has this got to do with Mark?’

  ‘I don’t know until you answer the question.’

  She took another sip of wine before answering. ‘My husband’s a management consultant.’

  DC Jones said, ‘Rhiannon’s a lovely name.’