The Wrecking Bar

by Meurig Jones

  Her face suddenly contorted into a savage animal rage. ‘Piss off!’

  The door slammed shut, and he heard her scuffling back down the hall.

  As DC Jones put her foot on the accelerator to take a corner, a disconcerting roar from the engine made her think the car was packing up, until she realized the thunderous noise was coming from above. Of course, she was close to the airport and a jet was taking off.

  She found Mrs Parry’s home in a quiet cul-de-sac in Porthkerry. The house, built around the middle of the twentieth century, had a pebble-dash exterior, and looked solid and weatherproof, although the windows needed repainting. A six-foot-high hedge masked the front garden from the road, and a small gravelled drive led to the front of the house through a wide open wrought-iron gate. Attached to the left of the house was an extension garage, the red tiled roof turning mildew green. The front garden was surprisingly well tended and DC Jones wondered if the old lady had help with the gardening or was capable of maintaining it.

  She was halfway through the gate when she spotted another car in the drive: a green Ford Mondeo. Knowing Gavin Lloyd drove a BMW, she didn’t think it was his. At least, she hoped it wasn’t, because that would really scuttle her plans. And going to a magistrate to put forward a case for a warrant to search these premises might be tricky, seeing as Mrs Parry and her husband had once been influential members of the cream of Welsh society, inhabiting a cosy world of intellectuals, artists and writers, and even her son-in-law was held in high regard.

  But Jones had been forewarned about Mrs Parry’s condition, and wondered if the Mondeo belonged to a health visitor. She decided to risk calling, but didn’t want to block the other car in, so she reversed back out and parked in the road.

  As soon as she had rung the doorbell it was answered almost immediately by an enormous black woman, broad shouldered and well over six and a half feet tall, wearing a floral print frock in red and green. She gave DC Jones a broad smile and spoke with a strong South Wales accent.

  ‘Hello, love, what can I do for you?’

  Jones showed the woman her warrant card and had her story ready. ‘I’m Detective Constable Debbie Jones, and Gavin Lloyd has asked me to check up on one or two things, with Mrs Parry’s permission, of course. Do you mind me asking who you are?’

  ‘Not at all, love. I’m Brenda from Cornets Day Care, and every Wednesday I come and collect Megan to bring her over. It gets her out of the house for a bit of mental stimulation, some tea and a change of scenery. Doesn’t it, Megan?’

  The woman turned and stepped aside to include the frail old lady standing in the hall, wearing a beige raincoat buttoned right up to her neck. Mrs Parry stared at DC Jones expressionlessly, although there was a glimmer of recognition behind her eyes.

  ‘Are you and Bethan ready?’ she asked. ‘Are we going home now?’

  Jones looked at Brenda questioningly, who explained, ‘Bethan’s her other daughter. I think she thinks you might be Rhiannon.’ She lowered her voice and leaned close to Jones. ‘That was a terrible business. Tragic. She had so much to live for. What a thing to have happened.’ She turned towards Mrs Parry and raised her voice. ‘This is Debbie Jones, Megan. She’s come to have a look round for Gavin. You remember Gavin? Your son-in-law who’s been looking after you.’

  Mrs Parry looked as if this was far beyond her comprehension and gazed steadfastly at DC Jones.

  ‘What did you say you were looking for, love?’ Brenda asked DC Jones.

  ‘Mr Lloyd wanted us to look at some old family photographs, to see if there are any strangers in the photos who might have a criminal record.’

  It was an unlikely story, but the best she could come up with.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Brenda trustingly. ‘Will you still be here when I bring Megan back?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Oh, well, nice to have met you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

  So do I, DC Jones thought.

  ‘And I hope you find the scoundrel who killed her,’ Brenda added.

  Jones thought ‘scoundrel’ was rather a quaint way to describe a vicious killer, but merely nodded and mumbled her thanks.

  Brenda turned towards Mrs Parry and boomed, ‘Come on, Megan. We’re off on our usual Wednesday jaunt.’

  Mrs Parry shuffled forward obediently, giving DC Jones a glance of confusion. ‘Are we going home now?’ she said.

  ‘We’re off to Cornets,’ Brenda boomed. ‘You know you like it there.’

  She gave Mrs Parry her arm, nodded at DC Jones, and walked her to the car. Jones watched while she strapped the seatbelt round her passenger, gave her a wave, and went inside and shut the door. She waited until the car had driven off before opening the front door, clicking it on to the latch, and walking to the garage. She tried turning the door handle but it was locked, as she suspected it would be. She returned to the house, knowing she needed to work quickly to see if she could find the key to the garage and get the information she was looking for, just in case Gavin Lloyd suddenly turned up.

  After having Mrs Hilden’s door slammed in his face, Lambert walked to Poplar station, cursing and muttering, his mood sinking with every step. To talk to Lloyd’s mother, he felt, was crucial. But he’d caught her at a bad time, waking her from a drunken stupor. Maybe she’d be more responsive later in the day, especially if she was given that shot of alcohol her body craved.

  But first there was someone else he needed to interview. He caught a Jubilee Line tube at Canning Town and changed at West Ham for an eastward-bound District Line train. By the time he got to Hornchurch, it was nearly one o’clock, and he felt the first pangs of hunger from a complaining stomach. As soon as this interview was out of the way, he promised himself he would take a break and eat something.

  But when he came out of the station, and saw the rows of semi-detached houses that greeted him in this quiet suburban limbo, he knew the food would have to go on hold until later.

  Fortunately, when he stopped to study his Google map, he saw the address he wanted was quite close to the station. He had just crossed the road when his mobile rang. It was DC Wallace.

  ‘What have you got for me, Kevin?’

  ‘It’s about the credit card that was used by Mark Yalding to download child pornography off the internet.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘For a start, it was a new credit card and the pornography was the only transaction made on it. And it wasn’t registered to his address in Cowbridge.’

  ‘Go on,’ Lambert said, waiting for Wallace to confirm what he had already guessed.

  ‘The card was issued to his supposed address, Asquith Mansions, Coach Road in Hammersmith, London. The flat that belongs to Green Valley Productions.’

  ‘So it looks like he was set up.’

  ‘Exactly, sir. It’s doubtful he ever saw that credit card; never even knew he had it.’

  ‘Which would explain why Yalding’s wallet was stolen after he was murdered.’

  ‘Yeah, whoever killed him didn’t want the police to find out that the debit card wasn’t in his wallet.’

  ‘Did the credit card company tell you the date it was issued?’

  ‘Yeah, it was issued in September. Last month.’

  ‘And at that time he no longer worked for Green Valley Productions,’ Lambert said. ‘Now listen, Kevin, we need to present the chief superintendent with as much written information …’

  Wallace knew what he was about to say and cut in, ‘It’s OK, sir. The credit card company have confirmed it in writing. It took a while to get them to play ball, but when I told them it was urgent they agreed to fax the information over. And there’s a hard copy in the post.’

  ‘Thanks, Kevin. Well done. Has Debbie gone to the old lady’s at Porthkerry yet?’

  ‘Yeah, she should be there by now.’

  ‘And has she got the uniform back-up as I suggested?’

  ‘There’s a patrol car just round the corner from Gavin Lloyd’s
house, keeping an eye on the place. He’s got the BMW registration, and if he sees it heading in the direction of Porthkerry, he’ll ring her. She should have about ten minutes to get out of there.’

  ‘Good. Although I don’t suppose Lloyd will rush round to visit his mother-in-law the day after the funeral.’

  He heard Kevin laughing.

  ‘Unless it’s to evict the old girl and lay claim to the house. How are things in London, sir?’

  Lambert told him what had happened with Lloyd’s mother, saying he planned to return later in the day.

  Wallace laughed again and said, ‘Take some booze with you, and don’t let her have a drop until she talks to you nicely.’

  ‘I have a feeling that’s highly unethical. But I think in this instance, the end justifies the means.’

  Debbie Jones hurried into the living room, taking in at a glance the dust on the furniture, the general untidiness of the room, and an expensive carpet that was almost threadbare in places. Obviously Mrs Parry’s children hadn’t considered refurbishing their mother’s house, for it wouldn’t be long before she would need to be packed off to a residential home.

  The first thing of importance to catch Jones’s eye was a writing desk in an alcove directly opposite the door. She knew she had to work quickly in case Lloyd decided to visit, so she ignored the top part of the bureau, which opened out into the writing desk, thinking it probably contained invoices, receipts, bills and the usual array of stationery, and pulled open the top one of three drawers. It contained mostly family photographs, monochrome mainly and yellowing with age, and also some diaries from the 1980s. She shut the drawer and pulled open the second one down. This was packed with cardboard folders and documents. She raised the flap on the top folder and felt a surge of excitement deep inside her chest. She knew she had struck gold as she opened the vehicle log book for a Vauxhall Nova, colour red, first registered in 1989, and acquired by Megan Dilys Parry in 1991.

  Opening the handbag she wore diagonally strapped across her shoulder, Jones fumbled hurriedly for her notebook and pen, and made a note of the registration number. Now, if only she could find the key to the garage.

  She slammed the drawer shut and turned away from the writing desk. And that was when she knew she had got lucky for the second time that day. To the right of the door, which she hadn’t noticed when she first entered, was a small occasional table on which stood a telephone with extra large letters on the dial pad, and above it, fixed to the wall, was a heavy board with the family’s phone numbers printed in large font. But the board also had hooks on which hung four keys and three of them were labelled. There was one for the front door, back door and garden shed. The fourth key was unlabelled and looked like the sort of key that would fit a garage lock.

  She grabbed it, dashed out into the hall, put the front door on the latch again and strode over to the garage. She slid the key into the lock and turned it clockwise. It fitted, and she turned the handle. She was about to pull the door upwards when her mobile rang.

  Damn!

  She grabbed it from her bag and answered the call. It was PC Swift in the patrol car, telling her Lloyd was on his way over and she had ten minutes to get out. Maximum!

  She glanced at her watch. It was 1.32.

  She thanked PC Swift hurriedly, cut the call, and yanked open the garage door. Her drug-like rush of excitement suddenly plummeted. The garage was empty. Well, not empty exactly, but there was no car. She walked inside, knowing she still had plenty of time before he arrived, but wasn’t really expecting to find anything of interest. Until she looked down at the concrete floor and saw the pool of oil. And it looked like a fresh leak. Whichever car had been parked here recently had a bad oil leak, just like the one that had parked at the Lloyds’ house the night Rhiannon Lloyd was murdered.

  Knowing she needed to take a trace of this oil so that forensics could match it, Jones fumbled through her handbag for anything into which she could scoop a sample. She rummaged through the untidy contents of her bag but found nothing suitable. Then she remembered the plastic bags in the glove compartment of her pool car, and as another glance at her watch told her she still had seven minutes left, she decided she had time to run and get one.

  Ducking under the garage door, she ran down the driveway and out through the front gate. She had parked the car hurriedly a few feet from the kerb, and as she lunged towards the door on the passenger side, her foot missed the edge of the kerb, twisted sideways and she felt hot and cold needles of pain shooting through her nervous system. Her eyes watered as the freezing pain scolded her ankle. She leant over the roof of the car, cursing her luck. Everything had been going so well up until now.

  She put pressure on the foot, testing the pain. It was pretty bad, but would be nothing as bad as the trouble she’d be in if she was caught going through Mrs Parry’s house unwarranted. Any defence lawyer would claim evidence obtained in this way was inadmissible.

  As she leant over the car’s roof, trying to recover, her watch showed that it was now 1.37. She had only five minutes left to get her evidence, and return the garage key to its rightful place.

  As she hobbled up the drive, shards of pain shot up her leg like broken glass. She stopped halfway for some respite, but another glance at her watch told her she now had less than four minutes left.

  But because of the urgency of the situation and the fear of what would happen if Lloyd caught her, she found a way of overcoming the pain by sheer determination and managed to limp hurriedly to the garage. Taking a nail file from her handbag, she leant over and used it to scoop traces of oil into the bag.

  As soon as she had what she wanted, she shut and locked the garage door and hobbled painfully back to the house. Another quick glance at her watch told her she had less than three minutes left.

  Using the hallway wall for support, she limped back into the living room and replaced the key on its hook. By the time she reached the front door, took it off the latch and shut it behind her, over nine minutes had passed since the PC’s call.

  Although she couldn’t see the road because of the high hedge, she heard the car approaching. Ten minutes maximum, PC Sweet had warned. There was no way she was going to be able to limp back to the road before Lloyd pulled in to the drive, so she turned towards the house and pressed her finger to the doorbell. She heard the car pull up, and could feel eyes in her back like laser beams. As if she’d not been expecting him, she turned round as he was getting out of the passenger seat.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded. A trifle defensively, she thought. His driver, Jack Collier, remained in the car, staring at her expressionlessly.

  Putting on a bored, acting-under-orders, expression, she said, ‘It’s just a routine enquiry to ask your wife’s mother if there was anyone she could remember who might be able to help with—’

  ‘You’re wasting your time. You won’t get anything from my mother-in-law.’

  Playing dumb, she asked, ‘Oh? And why’s that, Mr Lloyd?’

  ‘She has senile dementia. She doesn’t always know who I am. Talks to me sometimes as if I’m her husband who died fifteen years ago.’

  Jones sighed pointedly. ‘Another wasted journey. I wish I’d known before driving over here. In any case, it doesn’t look as if she’s in.’

  ‘She’s at a day care centre this afternoon. When she gets back, I’ve somehow got to try to explain to her what’s happened to Rhiannon. It won’t be easy.’

  Jones’s left ankle was throbbing like mad and she dreaded the walk across the drive. ‘I don’t envy you the task.’

  Lloyd relaxed and smiled pleasantly, showing her how much he wanted to help. ‘You can always come back and talk to Mrs Parry if you wish. But I promise you, I’m not exaggerating about her condition.’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  As she began to walk across the drive, her ankle almost gave way, and she was unable to disguise her l
imp.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he called. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Getting out of the car, I twisted it on the edge of the kerb.’

  ‘A wasted journey and a twisted ankle. Not your day, is it? You OK to drive?’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  She could feel him watching her as she walked lamely to the gate. When she reached the car, in spite of the pain, she felt waves of relief for having got away with the search, hopefully without arousing his suspicion.

  Hot and cold stabs of pain from her foot brought tears to her eyes as she pushed the clutch down and put the car into second gear. It was fortunate it was her left ankle, leaving her right free if she needed to slam on the brakes; and if necessary she could do most of the journey in second gear.

  As she drove away, she thought about Mrs Parry’s Vauxhall Nova, which the old lady hadn’t been able to drive for years. And Keith Hilden, who in his new identity had led people to believe he was unable to drive, looked as if he had access to her car. But where was the car now? Had he managed to get rid of it? And even if forensics found that the sample of oil from the garage floor was identical to the oil on the Lloyds’ drive, was it enough to connect him to his wife’s murder? Not unless they could find someone he had paid to do the killing, because his presence in Edinburgh on the night of her murder was a perfect alibi.

  And how did any of this tie in with the sex offender murders?

  As she turned left out of Mrs Parry’s road, she glanced to her right and glimpsed the sea, choppy and grey, a view that she might have appreciated when she wasn’t in such pain.

  As she drove along towards the Cowbridge Road, she heard another roar as a jet took off and she saw the plane banking as it changed direction and headed north.

  North! Of course! Why had none of them thought of it? It suddenly became clear how his watertight alibi might fall apart now. If there was an evening flight from Cardiff, he could have got to Edinburgh within the hour.

  The car’s engine whined and protested as she drove at speed in second gear, heading for Swansea where she intended checking the flights from Cardiff to Edinburgh.