by Meurig Jones
‘Sometimes things hidden in a person’s past …’
‘Like the grandmother I’ve never known, you mean?’
Lambert nodded. ‘You have another grandmother, don’t you? Was she at the funeral today?’
‘Not much point. She’s got Alzheimer’s. Dad went round and tried to explain about Mam, but I don’t think she understood. Dad’s been very good to her; he goes round there all the time.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘House in Porthkerry, not far from the airport.’
‘Is there anything else you can remember from when you went back home? Any other strange phone calls or visitors?’
Rhys Lloyd thought about it and then shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, why are you asking me about all this? Shouldn’t you be talking to my father?’
‘Bit too soon after the funeral.’
‘Didn’t stop you talking to me, though, did it?’
‘I think your father’s going to be tied up for a while at the post funeral tea. Any reason you didn’t attend?’
‘Most of the people will be using it as a kind of reunion, or an excuse to … I can’t think of the word.’
‘Network?’ Lambert suggested.
‘Yeah,’ Rhys Lloyd said bitterly. ‘It’ll be a networking opportunity for most of them. I think it’d freak me out if I went.’
Lambert stood up. ‘I’m sorry for your tragic loss, Rhys. If you’ll excuse me—’
Rhys Lloyd looked up knowingly. ‘So what have I told you? Bugger all, except that my father’s mother is still alive. How will that help you to catch whoever it was who killed my mother?’
‘It won’t.’ Lambert said. ‘But often police investigations take us down blind alleys—’
Rhys Lloyd broke in, venom in his expression. ‘I hope you get the bastard who did it. And I hope they …’
Unable to think of a punishment appropriate enough to fit the crime, Rhys Lloyd began sobbing quietly. There was nothing Lambert could do or say to relieve his affliction, so he walked quietly to the door and let himself out.
Lambert parked near The Mountain Dew, picked up the folder that lay on the passenger seat and checked his watch. Another ten or fifteen minutes and Tony Ellis would be with him. He was visiting Sharon, who had to go into hospital early for observation because she was slightly anaemic.
As it was half seven on a Tuesday, the pub was fairly quiet, just the usual tea time regulars, who interrupted conversations to greet Lambert. Most of them knew what he did for a living, and he could tell by their eager expressions, that they would be keen to bring the conversation around to the gruesome spate of murders. But Lambert wasn’t in the mood for conversations about bringing back hanging, throwing away the key, or castration for sex offenders, so he took his pint and sat some distance from the bar. Besides, he needed to brief Tony Ellis about his role for tomorrow.
He sipped his pint of bitter, thinking about Randall Morris, who was still in police custody. Since a photograph and details of the wrecking bar that was purchased in Llanelli had been published in all the South Wales newspapers and several national dailies, two local Llanelli people had come forward with information. The trouble was, neither of their descriptions tallied. One of them said short and fat and the other thought the man was of average height, dark haired and thin. Randall Morris was tall with a shock of wild red hair.
The only way to settle it was to put Morris on an identity parade. But since the more recent evidence had come to light, Lambert thought it could wait another day. And he was hoping that by tomorrow it wouldn’t be necessary.
He downed his pint, and was at the bar getting a refill when Ellis arrived.
‘I timed that well,’ he said. ‘I’ll have the same.’
As soon as they were seated with their pints, Lambert asked Ellis about his wife.
‘Sharon’s fine. She’s in good hands. I took her in a bar of dark chocolate and a small can of Guinness to boost her iron levels.’
‘I thought pregnant women were not supposed to have alcohol.’
‘They’re not. But one small Guinness won’t do any harm, and the benefits of the iron’ll counteract the small amount of alcohol.’
Lambert patted the folder on the table beside him. ‘Tony, before I give you details of where this investigation heads now, I want you to promise me if Sharon goes into labour, you’ll be there. Don’t think twice about interrupting the investigation. Feel confident about delegating. I think you’ll find Debbie more than capable.’
‘What about Kevin?’
Knowing what Ellis was driving at, Lambert smiled. ‘He’s improving with age. So I think you can trust them both if you’re called away.’
‘Thanks, Harry. I really appreciate that. But why aren’t you heading the investigation?’
‘I still am. But tomorrow I’m having an away day.’
Lambert opened the folder, took out an A4 sheet of paper, and said, ‘Down to business,’ as he handed it to Ellis.
Ellis read from the paper, his eyes widening, while Lambert watched him, waiting for his reaction. As soon as Ellis looked up and made eye contact, Lambert said, ‘He reinvented himself. There’s no such person as Gavin Lloyd. Not the one we know, anyway. His name was Keith Hilden, born and bred in London’s East End, and changed his name by deed poll back in 1983. The man is a phoney; a social-climbing, opportunistic liar who has even managed to fool his own family all these years.’
Ellis pursed his lips as if to make a whistling sound, but stopped himself. ‘So he’s managed to keep his past buried for more than twenty-five years.’
‘Up until now.’ Lambert handed Ellis the folder. ‘In there you’ll find instructions for what needs to be checked tomorrow.’
Ellis opened the folder, took out sheets of A4 and read the instructions. ‘Yes, I see where you’re going with this. What about the chief super?’
‘Up until today he still thought Rhiannon Lloyd’s murder was a separate incident.’
‘What’s changed his mind?’
‘When I presented him with the evidence about Keith Hilden’s quarter of a century alias, he reluctantly agreed to my suggestions, even though he was stuffed full of the man’s sausage rolls and sherry at the time. But if all this proves to be groundless …’ Lambert waved a hand at the sheets of A4. ‘And if I come back empty-handed tomorrow, he’s going to want my head on a plate.’
‘What about the gun that killed Rhiannon Lloyd?’
‘They think it was a Smith and Wesson .38.’
Ellis raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting. A revolver rather than an automatic is far less likely to jam. And there’s no automatic ejection of cartridges. So it could have been a professional hit.’
‘We can’t rule that out,’ Lambert said.
Ellis glanced at the sheet of instructions again and a glint came into his eye. ‘So far it’s been a shitty week, but now I feel confident. Tomorrow’s the day for results. I just know it.’
Lambert chuckled. ‘You’re bound to say that, Tony, because you’re so close to being a father, so I don’t think it’s entirely to do with the investigation.’ Ellis opened his mouth to protest but Lambert continued. ‘Not that I blame you. You’re the one that’s embarking on an exciting journey.’ Lambert gave Ellis a lopsided grin. ‘Mind you, I don’t envy you the journey through the teenage years.’
‘And what about your journey, Harry?’
‘Literal or metaphorical?’
‘Your away day to London tomorrow.’
The smile suddenly vanished from Lambert’s face. ‘I think that’s where the truth lies buried. In Gavin Lloyd’s past. And I think his mother may shed some interesting light on it.’
‘His mother?’
‘Yes, I didn’t tell you, did I? Not only has he kept quiet about his change of name, when he cunningly reinvented himself, but even his family knew nothing about his dear mother, alive and well and still living in east London.’
‘Ashamed of her,
you think?’
‘Well, she sounds like she might have a serious drink problem. But something tells me he had another reason for reinventing himself and starting a new life here in Wales.’
Ellis glanced at his watch. Lambert could see he was on tenterhooks, his mind torn between thoughts and worries of the impending birth and wanting a resolution to the horrendous spate of murders.
Nervously, Ellis excused himself and went to the Gents, leaving Lambert to chew on his own troubled thoughts. His last remark to Tony Ellis about Gavin Lloyd having reinvented himself reminded him of his sister, starting again in another country to escape a distressing past.
But as Lambert knew, escape is never truly possible. His own past was a constant reminder of something he wanted to banish from his mind, but was always there to haunt him, a ghost of regret.
TWENTY-THREE
HOPE TRIUMPHS OVER experience, thought Lambert as he sipped weak instant coffee from a plastic beaker, his third since leaving Swansea. Another hour and he’d be in Paddington. That’s if there were no delays, but so far the train was running to time.
He had parked in a multi-storey close to Swansea station and caught the train just before eight, purchasing a first-class ticket which was almost what he had paid for a flight to New York six months ago. He could imagine the look on Marden’s face when he put it through expenses and got a buzz of guilty pleasure from the extravagance. Marden hadn’t even wanted him to travel by train, and would have preferred him to make the journey in a pool car, but Lambert had persuaded him that as he had several places to go in London which were poles apart, he couldn’t risk not getting his witnesses interviewed in one day, which would then mean an overnight and the added expense of a hotel. He also explained the need to keep in touch with his team regularly throughout the day from his mobile, which would be awkward while driving. That had swung it with grudging reluctance from Marden. However, Lambert knew he was pushing his luck travelling first class. Marden would have a fit. But having witnessed the hordes of passengers heading for the overcrowded standard class, before settling into the relative quiet of the unfilled first-class carriage, where he could stretch out expansively and make one or two phone calls, any guilt about the expense of this trip instantly disappeared.
Twice during the journey he tried calling his daughter and got her voicemail on both occasions. He didn’t bother leaving a message as she rarely responded. He wasn’t particularly troubled by these derelictions of daughterly duty, seeing as she had only graduated from university three months before moving to London, where she was still settling into her first job with a publishing company, and was going out with a boy she met on holiday. Therefore it came as no surprise that he was low on her list of calls to return.
He settled back in his seat, picked up a copy of The Times and started to read when his mobile rang. It was Tony Ellis, sounding excited and breathless.
‘Harry! I’ve got some info for you but I’ll have to be quick. Sharon’s waters have broken and she’s gone into labour, so I’m just off to the hospital. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘Gavin Lloyd, when he was still Keith Hilden, passed his driving test in 1982. The driving licence has been kept up to date in Hilden’s name, one of the newer licences with a photograph. So he’s perfectly capable of driving, which means—’
Lambert interrupted to say, ‘Which means he can use his driving licence as an ID, and a false ID at that, seeing as he changed his name officially.’
‘Exactly. And you know what the address given on his licence is?’
‘His London flat? Coach Road, Hammersmith?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I didn’t. I’m just guessing. How are Debbie and Kevin getting on?’
‘They’re doing OK. That list of suggestions you gave me, they’re up to speed on it.’
Lambert thought he heard his sergeant’s nervous intake of breath.
‘Harry, I …’
‘Go on, Tony. I know you want to get away. And good luck.’
‘Yes, thanks, I hope I’ll have some news for you before the day is out.’
The line went dead, and Lambert was left thinking how inconvenient it was during this crucial time in the investigation for his sergeant to be off the case. But it couldn’t be helped. He wanted Tony to be there for the birth, just as he had been there for Natasha’s birth when he himself was a detective sergeant, and his long-since retired boss, DI Wilson, had insisted he forget about the rape case they were investigating to concentrate on becoming a father. And now, with history repeating itself, he felt good about telling Tony to treat the birth as his number-one priority. It somehow felt like the passing on of a family tradition.
And that’s how he thought of Tony Ellis. He was more than just a work colleague. He was family.
As the train pulled in to Reading station, Lambert glanced at his watch. Not long to go now. And he wondered how long it would be before Debbie Jones or Kevin Wallace came up with a few more answers.
The Docklands Light Railway rattled out of the tunnel, climbing to its overhead height. In the distance Lambert saw the mighty towers of Canary Wharf under a leaden sky, a view guaranteed to dampen any optimism, although the central edifice did trigger feelings of admiration for the way it dominated London’s docklands as an iconic landmark.
He’d never been to this part of London before and had double-checked his destination as the automatic railway branched in various directions. He caught the City airport train which didn’t branch off at Westferry for Canary Wharf, but took him straight on for one more station. He got off at Poplar, overshadowed on one side by the giant glass buildings, mainly banks and financial institutions, and on the other by housing estates. He walked out into the street, consulted his map, and set off along an alley, heading north.
As he neared the housing estates, he expected to find litter-strewn streets awash with the ubiquitous McDonald’s milkshake cups and KFC boxes. But he was wrong. The streets were reasonably clean and free from litter, and he wondered if this was something to do with the close proximity of Canary Wharf. The power of money.
Mrs Barbara Hilden’s flat was on the first floor of a three-storey block called Wordsworth House. As he approached the entrance, he found a solid security gate barring his way to the stairwell. There was a row of buttons and an entryphone system, but he didn’t want to alert Lloyd’s mother to his arrival, so he waited just round the corner from the entrance. After he’d been waiting for ten minutes, he heard footsteps on the stairs. When he judged they had almost reached the ground floor, he hurried round to the entrance and came face to face with a young Asian man. Lambert put a hand to stop the gate closing.
The young Asian stopped and regarded him suspiciously. ‘D’you live here? I’ve never seen you before.’
Lambert smiled. ‘I’m visiting my mother, Mrs Hilden, at number twelve.’ He indicated the row of bells. ‘She’s a bit deaf, and she’s often on the sauce.’ He made a tippling gesture with his hand.
The young man shrugged and walked off without giving it another thought. Lambert went in, shut the gate and climbed the stairs. A metallic smell of cold damp concrete reminded him of his own childhood, and he questioned the temerity of the councillor who named this miserable building after the poet who immortalized golden daffodils.
Carefully avoiding a child’s tricycle abandoned bang in the middle of the first-floor balcony, he found number twelve halfway along. He knocked loudly on the metal knocker beneath the letterbox and waited. Not a peep from inside the flat. Somewhere further along the balcony he heard the clatter of crockery, and guessed the kitchens were at the front of the flats.
He knocked again, louder than before. After a moment, he thought he heard a scuffling sound from inside, followed by an unhealthy coughing. And then footsteps shuffling along the hall. The door opened a crack, stopped by a security chain.
The face that peered out at him, still blinking sleep from her eyes, see
med to be suffering from the ravages of time and too much alcohol. Her leathery skin was deeply wrinkled and she looked as if she had stepped off the set of Planet of the Apes. Her eyes were surprisingly blue and clear, but her slept-in blue eye shadow was smudged, as was the overdone rouge of her cheeks and lipstick, adding a clown-like appearance to her ape-mask face.
Lambert showed her his warrant card. ‘Mrs Hilden, I’m Detective Inspector Lambert. I’d very much like to talk to you about your son Keith.’
It took her a moment to absorb this request. ‘What about?’ Her voice crackled and quivered with age.
‘If I could just come in and talk to you about him, I’d be very grateful.’
Another pause while she digested his words. ‘My son left years ago. He ain’t here.’
Lambert gave her a pleasant, understanding smile. Through the crack in the door, he smelled a sour sweetness from her breath and almost recoiled.
‘I know he no longer lives here, Mrs Hilden. But I’d still like to talk to you about when he was growing up.’
‘What business is that of yours?’
‘If you could just let me in for a minute, I’ll tell you.’
‘Keith’s a man now, and he’s never been in trouble with the police. Never.’
‘No, I know that, Mrs Hilden, but I’d still like to talk to you.’
She frowned, the creases in her face accentuating her simian features. ‘But what if I don’t want to talk to you?’
Lambert laughed and kept a lightness in his voice. ‘Come on, Mrs Hilden – or can I call you Barbara? If you can just give me a couple of minutes of your time.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. You can’t come in.’
‘Now don’t be like that, Barbara,’ Lambert began, but she interrupted him.
‘Where’s your search warrant? You need a search warrant to come inside. I do know that.’
Lambert showed her an empty hand. ‘We don’t need a warrant, Barbara. Not to have a friendly chat. Search warrants are when people have committed crimes or have got something to hide. I just want to talk to you about …’