The Wrecking Bar

by Meurig Jones

  A single tear trickled from a corner of an eye, and he gave a low animal moan as his head dropped forward into his hands. A momentary silence followed as they watched him sobbing, and then his solicitor jumped in. ‘I think that’s quite enough, Mr Lambert.’

  Lambert nodded at Jones. ‘I think we’ll take a break and resume the interview in half an hour.’

  When he first set eyes on Jack Collier, Ellis had searched his mind for an elusive word in his vocabulary to describe Gavin Lloyd’s driver. Now, as he was about to ask Collier the first question of the interrogation, the word flashed into his mind like a neon sign.

  Cipher. That was it. A cipher.

  Collier was a nonentity. Which was strange, really, because Ellis could see that the driver was better-looking than his boss. He had an almost conventionally handsome face with features that were perfect: full lips, a perfectly proportioned nose, high cheekbones which were not overly prominent, and steel-blue eyes with the sort of long dark lashes that most women covet. But there was not a single hair on his head, which was white and smooth as a cue ball. He might have been considered striking, but there was something seriously lacking. Perhaps it was all to do with personality. Ellis felt the man was insipid and dull, and probably had very little to offer socially.

  Sitting beside Collier was his solicitor, provided by his employer from the same firm of solicitors as his own. This solicitor, as Wallace had dropped in an aside to his sergeant prior to entering the interview room, made young coppers look like pensioners. He was fresh-faced, wore frameless, slightly tinted glasses, and looked like he had just left the sixth form.

  ‘Mr Collier,’ Ellis began, ‘if, as I believe, Mr Lloyd doesn’t drive, and you take him everywhere, you must have got to know him quite well? How long have you worked for him?’

  Sitting beside Ellis, DC Wallace studied Collier’s reaction, or rather the lack of reaction in his inscrutable face. What leapt into Wallace’s mind was the expression: the lights are on but there’s no one home.

  After several beats, Collier answered, ‘Twenty-five years.’

  ‘And how old are you now?’

  ‘Forty-eight.’

  Ellis suspected he was going to get monosyllabic answers from this man and wondered how he could draw him out.

  ‘You’re not Welsh, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So where are you from, originally?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘When did you come to live in Wales?’

  ‘Twenty-five years ago.’

  ‘So how did you end up working for Mr Lloyd?’

  ‘He advertised for a driver. I applied and got the job.’

  ‘What time did you leave for Edinburgh yesterday?’

  Without hesitating, Collier replied, ‘Four in the afternoon.’

  ‘And how long did the journey take?’

  ‘Just over six hours.’

  ‘So you arrived just after ten.’

  ‘Quarter past.’

  ‘Did you stop on the way?’

  ‘We stopped at a pub.’

  Ellis’s voice rose in surprise. ‘But isn’t it motorway almost all the way to Edinburgh, except the last leg of the journey when you leave the M74? Yet you say you stopped in a pub.’

  ‘Gavin don’t like motorway services.’

  ‘So where was this pub?’

  Ellis could see Wallace out of the corner of his eye, pencil poised, ready to jot down the name and area.

  Collier shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  Ellis feigned bewilderment. ‘Let me get this straight: you have no idea where you stopped for a drink—’

  Collier interrupted him. ‘I didn’t say that. I know the pub was somewhere in Kendal, not far off Junction 37 on the M6. But I can’t remember which pub we stopped at or its exact location. It’s about six or seven miles from the junction.’

  Up until now, Collier had given short answers and Ellis wondered if the man was being deliberatively uncooperative, giving the impression he was taciturn. He decided he would shift the interrogation up a gear. ‘What did you and your employer talk about on this journey?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  Ellis laughed sarcastically. ‘That must have been an interesting six hours. Come on, Mr Collier, you must remember something you discussed.’

  ‘Well, you know …’

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ Ellis snapped. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the solicitor about to intervene and continued his questioning hurriedly. ‘I find it difficult to believe you don’t remember a single topic of conversation. You’ve been driving him around for twenty-five years, so you must get on with him pretty well. Did he talk to you about his wife?’

  ‘No, we talked about the television series he’s planning.’

  ‘But he didn’t talk about his wife at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they argue much?’

  Collier shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Most married couples row from time to time. And don’t you live with them both?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve got my own separate flat.’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon, when you left for Edinburgh, was it from the Lloyds’ house?’

  ‘No, it was from the office in Cardiff.’

  ‘So was Mr Lloyd working in his office prior to leaving for Edinburgh?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just told you. We left from his office.’

  ‘But what were you doing before you picked him up at his office?’

  ‘I was at my flat, having a rest before the journey.’

  ‘Did you see his wife or speak to her?’

  Collier paused, taking his time while he thought about this, almost as if he was considering his options. ‘She came and knocked on my door.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About one o’clock. She was going out, and she wanted to know when we’d be coming back from Scotland.’

  ‘Have you any idea where she was going?’

  ‘She was off to her mother’s. She often went round there, to make her lunch. Her mother’s got Alzheimer’s disease. Sometimes a health visitor goes round, but not on a Monday.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Collier, but I would have thought her mother would have been better off in the granny annex where you live, so that her daughter could keep an eye on her. Was this ever a contentious issue between Mr Lloyd and his wife?’

  Collier shrugged and his head turned towards the bare wall of the interview room. ‘I don’t know. If it was an issue, I never got to hear of it.’

  Ellis said nothing, waiting for Collier to feel the discomfort of the silence and look him in the eye again. When he did, Ellis said, ‘On your way to Edinburgh yesterday evening, how long did you stop at the pub?’

  Disconcerted by the sudden change, Collier’s mouth opened, confusion showing in his eyes. Ellis repeated the question.

  ‘I don’t think I …’ He stopped and looked upwards, thinking. ‘I don’t think we were there very long. It was really to give me a break for a cup of coffee. It’s a long journey.’

  ‘I’ve driven from Swansea to Edinburgh,’ DC Wallace interposed, his voice mild and conversational. ‘It’s just over four hundred miles. So if you broke the journey, you must have made pretty good time.’

  ‘I don’t hang about,’ Collier replied, and then smiled, sharing a joke. ‘You’re not trying to trap me into admitting I was speeding, are you?’

  Ellis stared at him, his expression serious. ‘So how long did you stop at the pub for?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes. It was really more of a toilet break.’

  ‘Did you stop anywhere for petrol?’

  Collier shook his head. ‘We filled up in Cardiff. It was a BP station and Gavin had a bit of an argument with the staff in there.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Well, I sat in the car; I didn’t go inside. But it was one of those petrol stations with a mini supermarket, and apparently Gavin blew his top because he had to queue behind peopl
e with loads of shopping. He reckoned there should have been a till just for petrol.’

  ‘Unlike the pub halfway to Edinburgh,’ Ellis said pointedly, ‘can you remember the location of this petrol station?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ve used it before.’

  ‘And we’ll want to check up on your Edinburgh hotel, and get staff to verify the time of your arrival.’

  A short bark of laughter from Collier, whose confidence seemed to have grown. ‘I don’t think they’ll forget us two in a hurry.’

  ‘Oh? And why’s that?’

  ‘Gavin had a row about the service. He was annoyed the restaurant was shut. They offered us sandwiches from room service or in the bar, but Gavin wanted a proper meal.’

  Ellis frowned thoughtfully. ‘But you arrived around quarter past ten. Don’t you think that’s a bit late to expect a hotel restaurant to still be serving?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘So Mr Lloyd had an argument before setting off for Edinburgh, and had another argument while checking in to the hotel. Bit of a coincidence, that, don’t you think?’

  Collier shrugged.

  ‘Is that a question that needs answering, Sergeant?’ the solicitor said. ‘Or is that an observation of your own?’

  Ignoring him, Ellis stared at Collier. ‘Did Mr Lloyd have an argument at the pub you stopped at, by any chance?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  As if suddenly remembering something vital, Ellis clicked his fingers and said, ‘Oh yes, something I meant to ask you, Mr Collier: do you know if Mr Lloyd owns a firearm of any sort?’

  ‘I don’t think he does, no.’

  ‘You seem very certain about that. Does Mr Lloyd tell you everything he does?’

  ‘Like you said yourself, I’ve driven him around for twenty-five years. I think I’ve got to know him pretty well in that time. And I’ve never known him to mention guns or shooting.’ Collier’s eyes narrowed as he stared shrewdly at Ellis. ‘So if you’re asking about guns, it must mean you suspect Gavin of killing Rhiannon. I’m sorry, that’s bollocks. All you’ve got to do is check up with the hotel in Edinburgh to see where we were at ten o’clock last night.’

  Ellis held Collier’s confident stare. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Collier. We have every intention of doing that.’

  Following the two interviews, it was decided that Lloyd and his driver would be held a while longer, while Lambert and the other detectives drove to Cockett Police Station to compare notes in the incident room.

  ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that Lloyd went to Edinburgh,’ Lambert said. ‘But it’s a strange coincidence. We now have four suspects with perfect alibis. There’s Norman McNeil and his brother-in-law, Alan Hughes, both with watertight alibis for when the sex offenders and Yalding were murdered, and coincidentally Lloyd and his driver can account for their whereabouts when his wife was murdered.’

  Ellis, sitting on a corner of one of the desks, nodded at the whiteboard where the names and photographs of their suspects were stuck, with red felt-tip lines connecting them, and said, ‘It looks like one hell of a conspiracy, if they’re all in it together.’

  ‘It could well be,’ Lambert continued thoughtfully, ‘that Rhiannon Lloyd’s death is not connected to the others.’

  DC Jones asked him if he thought robbery was the motive.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he replied. ‘It could have been for financial gain, though.’

  ‘So you still think her husband had something to do with it?’

  Leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, Wallace said, ‘He could have paid to have her whacked.’

  Kevin’s American gangster jargon provoked a giggle from DC Jones.

  Lambert stared at her. ‘No, Kevin’s got a point. We don’t know what sort of gun was used yet, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone has hired a professional to kill someone close to them.’

  One of the desk telephones rang and Ellis picked it up. ‘CID, Sergeant Ellis speaking.’ He listened briefly, and his eyes flickered over to Lambert. ‘He’s here. I’ll pass you on to him.’ Holding the phone out to Lambert, he covered the mouthpiece and said, ‘DC McLeish, Lothian and Borders.’

  Lloyd and Collier’s photographs had been faxed to Edinburgh police, requesting confirmation of their hotel arrival.

  Lambert took the phone. ‘Good of you to ring back so promptly, Jim,’ he said. ‘You checked with the hotel manager?’

  The other three detectives waited quietly, watching and listening to Lambert’s brief conversation.

  ‘So the receptionist and the manager confirmed that it was them.’ Listening to the reply, Lambert snorted and a grin broke out on his face. ‘OK. Thanks, Jim, I really appreciate your help. Yeah, and you.’

  After he hung up, Lambert still had the grin on his face as he said, ‘That was confirmation it was Collier and Lloyd in Edinburgh. And the hotel manager took an immediate disliking to Lloyd and said it was lucky the restaurant was shut because he’d have been tempted to piss in the wanker’s soup.’

  ‘Well, that’s their alibis confirmed,’ Ellis said.

  Lambert’s grin had become lopsidedly cynical. ‘Lloyd blows his stack at the petrol station on the way out of Cardiff, and another argument on their arrival in Edinburgh. Talk about signposting their alibis.’

  ‘Otherwise they might have gone unnoticed,’ DC Jones said.

  The telephone rang again and Lambert grabbed it. He listened intensely, strain showing on his face. ‘OK. I’ll be there right away, sir.’

  He hung up and told them, ‘DCS Marden wants to see me urgently. Maybe a milk float’s been stolen in Bridgend.’

  As Lambert knocked and entered, he found Marden in a fidgety mood, standing to the side of his desk. He was greeted with, ‘I’m not pleased with the way things are going, Harry.’

  Lambert said nothing, waiting for the chief super to elaborate.

  ‘The emails I get from you keeping me informed are, to say the least, vague to the point of …’ Marden struggled to find an appropriate description.

  ‘Of what, sir?’ Lambert said innocently.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Now I assume you’ve checked Gavin Lloyd’s alibi by now?’

  ‘It’s been done,’ Lambert nodded, being deliberately vague.

  Marden’s voice rose with a trace of irritation. ‘And?’

  ‘He and his driver were on their way to Edinburgh at the time of the murder. If his wife was killed just before DC Jones and I arrived at the scene, they were probably somewhere on the M6 in the Lake District.’

  Marden glanced impatiently at his watch. ‘So you’ve no evidence tying Gavin Lloyd to the murder of his wife.’

  ‘Not yet we haven’t.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘We were discussing the possibility of him paying someone to kill her.’

  Marden laughed but his eyes were frosty. ‘A hitman, you mean? Harry, this is Bridgend, not Chicago.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, you might have noticed the sudden spate of brutal killings in this part of the world. I’ve chalked up four so far, plus one drowned suicide. Soon the cops of Chicago will liken their crime scenes to ours in South Wales.’

  ‘But it’s ludicrous to put Gavin Lloyd in the frame simply because he has a motive. You could say a lot of married couples have motives. People often gain from the death of their partner. And Gavin Lloyd’s a highly respected member of the community.’

  Ah, thought Lambert, the truth will out. Of course, DCS Clive Marden was also a respected member of the community, mixing in those same hallowed Welsh circles as the Lloyds. The inner sanctum which Lambert had discovered was a closed door, slammed years ago in his face. It was all to do with his attitude. He could never let pretentiousness go unchallenged and more often than not it was his mouth which excluded him from those circles. Not that it bothered him. Far from it.

  As if he could sense what Lambert was thinking, Marden softened his voice and a
dded, ‘I’m not asking any special favours for Gavin Lloyd because of his standing in the community. I want you to look at the evidence and the facts in this case. We know whoever shot Rhiannon Lloyd stole a valuable Augustus John painting. That alone would have been worth a small fortune. Her jewellery also was substantial, including a watch, a Patek Philippe, valued at fifteen thousand pounds. Just because her boyfriend was killed doesn’t mean that the murders are connected. It could be a pure coincidence.’

  Seeing Lambert about to reply, Marden raised a hand. ‘Yes, I know. You don’t believe in coincidences. But they do happen. And that’s what makes them coincidences.’ He glanced at his watch again and ushered Lambert towards the door.

  Lambert tried to control his temper. One more push on the button and it would erupt. What was wrong with communicating by telephone? Why had he driven from Swansea to Bridgend for this brief meeting?

  ‘You’ve got no evidence that Gavin Lloyd had anything to do with his wife’s death,’ Marden said. ‘So I think you’d better release him and his driver. And the ACC’s agreed to provide more resources. That should help you find the other three sex offenders, and I think this vigilante group needs investigating.’

  ‘Believe it or not, sir, that was going to be my next move,’ Lambert said as he walked away.

  Marden called after him, ‘Oh, yes, you might like to know North Devon CID has officially identified the drowned man as Gordon Mayfield.’

  Lambert stopped and turned round. ‘Well, of course it was Mayfield. Who else would it have been?’

  ‘We have to be certain, Harry. Even you know how dangerous it is to make assumptions.’

  ‘Who else’s body could have washed up in the Bristol Channel? Richey Edwards, maybe?’

  Confusion mixed with disgust in Marden’s expression. Lambert misinterpreted it and started to explain, ‘Richey Edwards was the missing band member—’

  ‘Yes, I’m well aware he was one of the Manic Street Preachers and his body was never found. I was just thinking what a tasteless remark that was.’

  Slamming his office door, Marden turned away and stormed off in the other direction.