The Wrecking Bar

by Meurig Jones

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We can’t really call you Rhiannon, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s partly to do with our training. It’s either sir or ma’am or a surname. What’s your surname?’

  ‘Williams.’

  Lambert noticed how much less hesitation it took to answer this question, almost as if she was prepared for it.

  ‘And that’s your married name, not your maiden name?’ Jones asked, and a sudden thought sped like lightning through her brain. Why had Lambert made such a thing about her own maiden name and its significance?

  ‘Yes, that’s my married name. I’m Mrs Williams.’

  Lambert leant forward on the table. ‘Mrs Williams, did your husband know or have grounds for suspicion about your affair with Mr Yalding?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you’re not certain.’

  ‘No, I don’t think he did. I’m almost certain.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Almost certain! Isn’t that what they call an oxymoron?’

  ‘Mr Yalding,’ Lambert continued, ‘is adamant that he’s been set up in some way. Is there anyone else you can think of, apart from your husband, who might want to incriminate your boyfriend?’

  ‘No, there’s no one. Mark’s a lovely man; he gets on well with everyone. He’s well liked and popular.’

  ‘Do you have a key to his cottage?’

  Another slight hesitation before she answered. ‘Well, yes, I do but—’

  Lambert cut in, ‘So when I saw you call at his cottage this morning, and there was no reply, why didn’t you let yourself in?’

  ‘I didn’t have it with me. I’d misplaced it. We have a drawer in our kitchen full of odds and ends, and I rummaged through and couldn’t find it.’

  ‘You think it might have gone missing?’

  ‘Of course not. If you saw the state of this drawer, you’d realize how hard it is to find anything.’

  Lambert nodded slowly, deep in thought. In the background he could hear music playing, just about audible over the sound of pub banter and laughter. He identified the number as one he liked: Marc Almond singing, ‘Say Hello, Wave Goodbye’. As he took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst, a delicious smell of garlic swamped his senses.

  ‘Mrs Williams, I have some bad news. After you left the cottage this morning, I went round to the back door. It was open so I let myself in.’

  She seemed to shrink into herself as she stared at him, her eyes desperate and pleading, fearing one of the worst things she knew she would hear.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you: I’m afraid Mr Yalding is dead.’

  At first she looked as if she had been turned to stone. Then, like a volcano erupting, her body shook as she choked and sobbed, unable to control her grief.

  Several people standing at the bar stared at the scene, embarrassed but curious. Jones slid an arm across her shoulder and muttered soothingly:

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s a tragic loss. I’m so sorry. He must have meant a great deal to you.’

  ‘I knew,’ she sobbed, ‘when I went to the cottage this morning, and there was no reply … Oh, God! I just knew something dreadful must have happened. Can we go outside, please?’

  She began to rise shakily, hanging on to the table for support. Jones gave her an arm to lean on and helped her towards the door. Lambert picked up a spare serviette and followed them. A cursory glance at the bar told him they were the focus of everyone’s attention. DC Jones managed to steer her away from the pub entrance and found a quiet area far from the beer garden, close to the pub’s trade entrance and a wooden boundary fence, which Rhiannon Williams leant against for support.

  She sniffed noisily and Lambert pressed the serviette into her hand. ‘Oh, God!’ she moaned. ‘Oh, God! I must pull myself together. I must. I must.’

  ‘Because of your husband?’ Jones asked.

  Rhiannon Williams nodded tearfully, wiped her eyes and blew her nose on the serviette. ‘Though how I’m going to do that, Christ only knows. But I must.’ Like a cornered animal, her expression became suddenly fierce as she stared accusingly at Lambert. ‘Why did you wait to tell me? Asking me all those questions, and all along you knew he was dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There were things we needed to know.’

  ‘Yes but what’s the bloody point? If Mark killed himself because he felt so ashamed, you asking me all those questions—’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Lambert interrupted. ‘He didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? Who would want to murder …’ It took her a moment to comprehend, but when the realization hit her, she opened her mouth in alarm but seemed unable to speak.

  ‘He was beaten to death just like the two recent murders of the sex offenders,’ Lambert said.

  ‘But Mark was no sex offender.’

  ‘We know he had no convictions and no police record of any sort. But because of the child pornography charge, the killer probably thought differently.’

  Her eyes fired up with rage. ‘If the police hadn’t arrested him, and if it hadn’t got into the papers, he’d still be alive. Mark would still be alive.’

  ‘We have no way of knowing that.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. Those other men who were killed … it was after it was reported in the papers.’

  ‘The police had no choice but to arrest him, following an FBI report of the child pornography download from his computer. If you want someone to blame, go for the press and paparazzi.’

  Her anger subsided and huge tears bubbled in her eyes. ‘Mark would never have done such a thing. I know he wouldn’t. And now he’s gone, and he’ll never be able to prove his innocence.’

  She dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose with the sodden serviette. DC Jones moved a little closer to her and spoke softly.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, we’ll find the killer and bring him to justice.’

  ‘It won’t bring Mark back.’

  ‘But is there anything we can do to help in the short term? You might find it tricky going back to your husband in this state. Obviously he’ll start asking questions.’

  ‘I’ll go and visit my mother and stay with her for a few days.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  Rhiannon Williams stared at Jones, trying to decide whether she could trust her with information about her private life. After a brief pause, in which she sighed and shuddered, she mumbled, ‘She lives on her own in a house in Porthkerry. It’s much too big for one person, and she should really be in a home – for her own good. Her short-term memory’s gone and she lives almost entirely in the past. She remembers me from years ago, and when I go round she won’t remember that I called to see her two days ago.’

  Lambert took out his wallet and offered her his business card. ‘If you think of anything and you need to contact me, it’s got my number on it.’

  She stared at the card with an uncomprehending, dazed expression. ‘I don’t see what I could possibly …’

  ‘You never know. However trivial it might seem, it could help us with our enquiries.’

  She nodded, and looked off into the distant hills, her eyes searching for some meaning to the way her life had suddenly been devastated.

  ‘Are you all right to drive?’ DC Jones asked.

  Without answering, she turned decisively and walked towards her Land Rover, which she had parked on the grass verge at the roadside.

  They watched her drive off, and Jones asked, ‘I presume you got the licence number when she was parked outside the house?’

  ‘Of course. And I intend checking it.’

  ‘You think she lied about her husband’s occupation?’

  Lambert nodded. ‘And I’ve got a feeling she lied about her surname as well. I don’t think she wants us to know who she is.’

  ‘Because of the affair she was having?’

  ‘Yes, and she has even more of a reason to keep it from her husband now t
hat her lover’s dead.’

  Frowning, Jones stared searchingly into her boss’s eyes. ‘That’s a very cynical outlook you have, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘It goes with the territory.’

  SIXTEEN

  SUNSHINE, NO SCHOOL for a whole week, and a shipwreck! Mickey and Steven couldn’t believe their luck in finding the launch. An exciting discovery, and something told them it was about to become an adventure.

  It lay half submerged at the water’s edge, where the beach dipped from shallow to deep water suddenly; a good beach for swimming when it was calm but slightly intimidating in choppier seas.

  They wondered how the boat came to be shipwrecked, and then they saw the battered hull and gaping hole on the uppermost side, probably the reason for its destruction. Even though they lived near the sea, they had only ever heard or read about shipwrecks, but this was ‘wicked’, as Mickey commented, and promised to up their standing in the young community.

  ‘Bet you’re glad you listened to me now,’ Steven boasted.

  They had been camping out in a small tent in Mickey’s back garden and had woken at five in the morning. Steven suggested a bike ride before breakfast, and Mickey had reluctantly agreed after a brief argument. Now he had to admit his friend was right. This shipwreck adventure was worth the risk of his mother’s wrath on finding the tent empty and their bikes gone.

  ‘Awesome!’ Mickey exclaimed, staring open-mouthed at the boat. ‘I wonder what we ought to do.’

  ‘We could explore it.’

  ‘What, you mean inside the boat?’

  ‘Yeah, you never know what we might find. Something valuable, maybe.’

  Mickey frowned, his eyes filled with doubt. ‘It might be a bit scary going in there. And it means getting wet.’

  Steven shrugged. ‘So what? Our shorts’ll soon dry.’

  ‘And it’s a bit scary.’

  ‘Can’t be any more scary than last September.’

  Mickey’s frown deepened. ‘What happened last September?’

  Steven giggled, teasing his friend. ‘You was the one who was worried about our first year at secondary school.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  His friend laughed loud and mockingly. ‘You was shitting your pants. And now you’re scared of exploring an old shipwreck.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Prove it then.’

  Mickey stood at the water’s edge, hesitating, feeling the salt breeze blowing softly against his cheeks and the early-morning sun warming the back of his neck. He stared at the tilted deck, which was only submerged in about two feet of water, and the entrance into the cabin was way above the level of the water. He could get inside there with no difficulty and it would provide him with an opportunity to dispel the suggestion of cowardice.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Not to be outdone, Steven said, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  But now that Mickey had overcome his fear, he didn’t want to lose any of the glory.

  ‘Yeah, but I’ll go first.’

  They waded into the water and Mickey raised himself onto the tilted deck by clutching and pulling at the rail above. Because the boat was tilted at such an unnatural angle, he worried about twisting his ankle or getting it caught in something.

  Steven followed him and copied the way he slid along towards the cabin entrance by grabbing the rail. The boat creaked and strained in the lapping waves as the children panted and grunted with the effort of clinging on.

  As Mickey reached the cabin entrance, he said, ‘As I’m first in the cabin, I get the first pick of anything valuable.’

  He lay sideways on the stairs leading into the cabin and started to slide cautiously inside, eyes peering into the gloom. A beam of sunlight cut through one of the portholes like a blade and a patch of light filtered through the shattered hull.

  ‘Go on,’ Steven urged. ‘What can you see?’

  Mickey froze as he saw the corpse, twisted into a foetal position under one of the fitted seats. A cold hand gripped his throat and squeezed.

  ‘Quick! Get out of here!’ he screamed, panicking and banging his head on a metal rail.

  His friend knew he had seen something horrific and hurled himself backwards off the boat and into the sea. Mickey joined him seconds later and both of them scrambled up the beach and away from the boat.

  He couldn’t remember a worse case than this one. All the years Lambert had spent in CID and this had to be the record breaker for so much death in such a short time.

  They had convened in the incident room last night to discuss and regroup. Another Sunday evening up the spout, but Tony Ellis would be hit hardest as his Sharon was expecting any time soon.

  And now that he’d spent another restless night, the death toll was beginning to show in Lambert’s face. His brain had been chewing over the case most of the night, and then his own ghosts took over and provoked and nagged him until the early hours. He had just drifted off to sleep when the alarm shattered his hopes of getting a decent rest.

  And the last thing he felt like was this meeting with Marden, under scrutiny like a lab specimen by the man’s avenging angel stare. As Lambert began explaining that it wasn’t suspects they lacked, but that they had rather too many, Marden sniffed disparagingly and peeled a newspaper off the top of a pile that lay before him on the desk.

  ‘When I gave the press briefing outside victim number three’s home in Cowbridge, I think it went well, and they’ve printed most of what I said, including details of the murder weapon. However, you can always rely on the gutter press to cock things up for the police.’

  Marden pushed the tabloid towards Lambert. The headline screamed at him:

  ‘WHITE VAN MAN KILLER.’

  Lambert scanned the first paragraph quickly and saw that it was the neighbour Kevin Wallace had interviewed who had given the details to a reporter.

  Lambert sighed heavily. ‘Oh, that’s just great. Compromises our investigation and alerts the killer. If he or they are targeting the other sex offenders, it’s good to know the gentlemen of the press have given them advance warning that their vehicle’s been identified.’

  ‘You said “they”. Any reason you think there might be two of them?’

  Lambert shook his head. ‘Just keeping an open mind.’

  ‘And you’ve never considered the killer could be female?’

  ‘I think it’s highly unlikely.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right. I think one of your priorities should be to find the whereabouts of these other sex offenders before the killer gets to them. We can’t afford to lose our credibility with yet another murder.’

  Lambert tapped the newspaper in front of him. ‘Especially now the cat’s out of the bag and they know about the sulphuric acid. I wonder how they got that story.’

  An uncomfortable beat before Marden spoke. ‘I told them at the press conference.’

  Lambert feigned open-mouthed surprise.

  Marden stared at Lambert with undisguised irritation. ‘We need someone to come forward who can give us information about acid going missing or being purchased. I would have thought that was obvious. Exactly like the murder weapon from the Llanelli store.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ Lambert mumbled grudgingly.

  He knew Marden had had a difficult decision to make when he gave this story to the press and he didn’t envy him the job. And on reflection he thought the chief super was probably right about the acid, and it might help them to draw in some valuable information. But it was the public knowing about the killer’s white van that was a problem and could result in many false leads. White vans were hardly rare.

  Clive Marden leant forward on his desk, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He fixed Lambert with a steely gaze. ‘I have a problem with you telling me we have too many suspects. That’s of no great help in this case. And I hope that sort of defeatist attitude doesn’t rub off on the rest of your team.’

  ‘I’m
just being realistic.’

  Marden clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘Move quickly to eliminate as many of the suspects as you can. Then give me some evidence. I know you can do it. You’ve done it before, Harry.’

  Lambert stopped himself from smiling as he realized this was as close as Marden would get to making a motivational speech. But it must have shown on his face, because the chief super began finger waving.

  ‘One of your prime suspects got away, Harry.’

  ‘Who? Gordon Mayfield?’ Lambert exaggerated a tone of incredulity. ‘He was never a prime suspect.’

  ‘But have you asked yourself where he might be this very minute? He could have sailed east along the coast. Supposing he moored somewhere like St Donat’s? It’s only six or seven miles from there to Cowbridge. Christ! You can practically walk it.’

  ‘Why would he walk all that way? We know the perpetrator drove a white van, sir.’

  The colour in Marden’s face deepened as if he was about to explode, but then his phone rang and he grabbed it.

  ‘Yes?’

  He listened intently to the caller, his eyes flitting to Lambert and away again. He scribbled something on a notepad and asked, ‘You’re sure about this?’ He nodded. ‘OK, as soon as they’ve made a positive identification, perhaps you could ask them to let us know. I’m well aware it’s almost bound to be him, but we have to be one hundred per cent certain. Get on to it right away, will you? Thank you.’

  He hung up and stared into space for a moment. Lambert could have sworn he saw a beaten look in his eyes, but it only lasted a moment. He soon recovered and leant forward across the desk again to confront Lambert with the news.

  ‘North Devon CID has made contact with us. They found the wreck of a boat called The Amethyst washed ashore along the coast near Bideford.’

  Lambert felt cheered by this news but remained deadpan. ‘Do they know what happened?’

  ‘Two youngsters found the wreck, went on board and discovered a body.’

  Although Lambert could guess the identity of the body, he said, ‘Have they any idea who it is?’

  ‘They haven’t formally identified it yet, but they think it could be Mayfield.’