by Meurig Jones
Keith! She needed to tell this bloke not to tell Keith what she’d said.
‘Wait!’ she said as Lambert was about to leave. ‘You won’t tell him, will you?’
He stopped at the door. ‘Keith, you mean?’
Her brain fuzzy, she struggled to find the words. ‘His name,’ she slurred. ‘I didn’t tell you his name. Gavin … that’s his name … he … he’ll get angry with me if he knows I told you.’
Lambert patted her on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Barbara. It never came from you. We already knew his name.’
With barely a backward glance at her, Lambert moved swiftly to the front door and let himself out.
As soon as she heard it close, she refilled her glass, without the Pepsi this time, and knocked back the neat spirit with one swift gulp. Confused now, she wondered who that man was she had spoken to. Something to do with Keith, she thought. And then, through the thick fog of her mind, she saw an image materialize. Christ! He was a copper. She’d been speaking to a copper. And what was it Keith had told her? It was something to do with his name.
Jesus Christ! She had told that copper his name, and after she’d promised him she wouldn’t.
Don’t tell anyone I’m Gavin Lloyd. Not anyone. Understand?
‘Yes, Kevin,’ she mumbled drunkenly, and then corrected herself, ‘Gavin! That’s it! Gavin! Oh Christ! I shouldn’t have told that copper your name, Gavin. I’d better ring you.’
But where had she put his number? Her misty eyes surveyed the bundles of newspapers and magazines stacked neatly on the table. It wasn’t there. She could remember having a clear up earlier in the day, restacking the bundles so there was barely an untidy overlap with the pages, but where was his number?
And then she remembered the kitchen! The noticeboard! Carefully tacked to the cork, all the things she needed to remember, all in neat rows with coloured tacks. She thought she remembered putting Keith’s number in a row of red tacks.
She staggered out to the kitchen and lurched towards the noticeboard on the wall above the mottled green work surface. She narrowed her eyes and focused on the noticeboard. And there it was, in big, bold letters. Keith stroke Gavin.
She unpinned the number from the board, rushed back into the living room and picked up the phone. After several attempts to dial, knowing she had pressed the wrong digits numerous times, she eventually heard the phone ring at the other end. She slumped to the floor and sat cradling the phone, humming a tune as she waited.
‘Keith!’ she shouted when it was answered. ‘Is that you?’
It was. It was him. Her Keith. She hadn’t misdialled after all. She felt pleased about that. But she wanted him to know how sorry she was.
Speech slurring heavily now, she said, ‘A man came here to see me. I think he was a copper. I’m sorry, Keith! I’m sorry! What? Yeah, I think he said that was his name when he first came round. I think that’s what it was. Yes! Lambert! Yes, I’m sure of it. And he’s just on his way back to Swansea on a late train. Oh, Keith. I’m sorry. I never meant to tell him you was Gavin. He knows you’re two people. Keith and Gavin. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to tell him who you are. Keith! Listen! I know what we’ll do….’
But her son had already hung up. After sobbing for a bit, she got up off the floor and poured the remaining vodka into her glass.
TWENTY-SIX
TWO SHIFTS AND different staff during fourteen hours of labour and still there was no sign of the baby being born. Twice Ellis had been told there was nothing happening because Sharon’s contractions were still too far apart, and was advised to take at least an hour’s break to get some food inside him. On both occasions, scared that something might happen in his absence, he grabbed a coffee and sandwich and took only half an hour.
He had returned to Sharon’s side well over three hours ago, when the nightshift staff came on duty. He’d been at the hospital since ten that morning. Now that it was almost midnight, he was nervous and jittery, feeling something was wrong.
He held Sharon’s hand tightly, squirming in its claw-like grip, trying not to wince at the pain. It was trivial compared to hers. But worse than her fingernails digging into the back of his hand was the rancid smell from her breath, putrid like drains. He tried not to think about it and concentrated on giving her encouraging smiles and weak words of comfort. But, apart from her grip, she was unaware of his presence, and he saw the desperation in her eyes, like an animal in pain, incapable of rational thought.
And then he noticed the urgent way the staff exchanged looks and he knew something was wrong. A strange feeling of disorientation overwhelmed him and he wasn’t sure if time had speeded up or gone into slow motion.
The consultant entered hurriedly, worried about the foetal distress and the baby passing meconium which, he explained, was the infant’s first stool, and if it was expelled into the amniotic fluid there was a danger that the baby could inhale the contaminated fluid which could lead to respiratory problems. He strongly advised what Sharon was afraid of hearing – an immediate caesarean birth. For the baby’s sake, he stressed, they needed to act quickly. That was when Ellis saw and admired Sharon’s decisive calm, her guts and determination as she insisted on an epidural caesarean. It was explained to him by one of the staff that she would be anaesthetized from the waist down so that she would be aware of what was happening and could hold her baby as soon as it was delivered.
Neck aching from where he’d been lying back with his head twisted uncomfortably, Lambert woke, yawned and stretched. The train braked as it approached a station and the announcement gave Cardiff as the next stop. He had drifted off into a fitful sleep just before Bristol Parkway, weaving in and out of consciousness, unclear whether his thoughts were dreams or vice versa.
When he’d boarded the train at Paddington, he’d bought himself a toasted sandwich and two small bottles of overpriced red wine, but he’d been too tired to eat the sandwich and left most of it. Now his mouth felt sour and stale from the wine and he needed to drink some water, but he doubted the buffet would still be open.
As the train completed the last lap of the journey, he thought about Dennis Hilden, whose suicide set up a chain of events culminating in a series of brutal murders. Had the man been given the benefit of foresight, would he still have contemplated taking his own life? But there were hundreds of suicides each year, and the relatives of those suicides, after having survived the traumas of the deed, carried on living normal lives, their heartbreak eventually healed with the passage of time.
It still didn’t absolve Dennis Hilden from his act of self murder and its effect, and had Lambert been a religious man he would have liked to be a witness for the prosecution on Hilden’s judgment day.
As the train neared Swansea, Lambert sat up and blinked the sleep from his watery eyes. He was exhausted, and would be lucky if he got three hours’ sleep as he had to be up early to present the case to Marden prior to the arrest.
When the train pulled in to Swansea, Lambert felt the early morning cold blowing through the draughty station as he stepped down on to the platform, and for a moment it seemed to revive him after the heat of the sleep-inducing carriage. He hurried to the car park, and raised the collar of his leather coat as he climbed the freezing stairwell to the second floor where he’d left his Mercedes. Because of his tiredness, he thought he saw demons lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack him. He smiled at the foolish notion, knowing the only thing likely to jump out at him was made of flesh and blood, but as it was almost 2.30 in the morning, it was unlikely that even the most desperate mugger would be lying in wait.
As soon as he settled behind the wheel of his car and turned the ignition key, his tiredness returned. By the time he had driven carefully out of the multi-storey, he was fighting to stay awake. He was so tired he failed to notice the car that pulled away from the kerb and followed his Mercedes out of the city centre and along the sea front towards his flat.
As he cradled his baby daughter, smiling at her as
she looked up at him, Ellis could have sworn she instinctively recognized him as her father.
Sharon was now asleep, exhausted after her ordeal but ecstatically happy. After the delivery she had cuddled her daughter and wept tears of joy, the baby had then been checked and weighed and found to be perfect, and Sharon had one more cuddle with her before allowing herself to lose consciousness.
After ten minutes of gazing into his daughter’s eyes, a nurse came and told him he ought to go home and get some sleep, offering to look after the baby for him. He was reluctant to part with his daughter, but also relieved after such an emotionally draining experience.
Once he had handed the nurse his child, and saw her looking down at his baby with such loving care, he felt reassured about leaving. And he knew as soon as he got home, and his head hit the pillow, he’d be spark out.
But as soon as he stepped outside the hospital into the cold air, he snapped awake with an elation he’d never known before. He was desperate to share his news with someone, but no one would thank him for being woken at three in the morning. On the other hand, what did it matter? And he suddenly knew who to contact; who might be finding it hard to sleep.
As soon as Lambert walked into his flat, the telephone rang. He had been so involved in the investigation, he had forgotten all about Tony Ellis and the birth, and he wondered who on earth could be ringing at three in the morning. He grabbed the phone.
‘Harry, sorry to ring so late,’ Ellis began.
‘Tony, what’s happened?’
‘Sharon was in labour for over fifteen hours, but she finally gave birth to a baby daughter.’
‘Congratulations, Tony! That’s fantastic news.’
‘I know. It’s brilliant. I’m sorry to ring so late, but I’ve just come from the hospital and I felt I had to tell someone.’
Lambert smiled, flattered he’d been chosen as the first to be told.
‘If you want to wet the baby’s head, I’ve got a bottle of Courvoisier sitting in the kitchen cupboard.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘I’ve only just got back on the late train, and I was debating whether or not to have a nightcap, so we’ll make it a celebration instead.’
‘Thanks, Harry. By the time you’ve poured the drinks, I’ll be there.’
Grinning, Lambert went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, grabbed the cognac and two glasses, and was about to pour when the doorbell rang.
He laughed and said, ‘That was quick!’ Presumably Tony had driven over to give him the good news, but decided to ring before calling.
He walked across the living room, out into the small hall and opened the door. He was still smiling as the fist caught him on the cheekbone and he fell back, cracking his head on the living-room door frame.
TWENTY-SEVEN
WHEN HE TURNED into Lambert’s street, Ellis couldn’t find a single space to park his car, unless he blocked someone’s drive. As it was the middle of the night, and he only intended stopping for one drink, half an hour at the most, he didn’t think it would matter. He parked his Fiat with two wheels on the kerb, squeezing in behind a BMW. He was about to cut his headlights when he realized something was trying to grab his attention. He stared at the BMW’s number plate for a while, until it clicked into place. It was the registration number of Gavin Lloyd’s car. He was sure of it. And he remembered it from earlier in the day, when he’d delegated Harry’s instruction to use a patrol officer to watch out for the car while Debbie was at Mrs Parry’s house.
So what was Gavin Lloyd doing at his boss’s flat?
Lambert’s head throbbed with pain. He knew he was dazed and not unconscious because he could hear voices, although he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Hands grabbed him roughly under the arms, pinching and pulling his skin, and he felt himself being dragged into the living room and turned over onto his stomach. With a massive effort he opened his eyes and struggled to turn over, but something hard slammed into the back of him and his head hit the floor.
Stunned and choking on carpet dust, he felt a rope being squeezed tight around his wrists. Hands grabbed him under the arms again and lifted him into a sitting position against the edge of the sofa. He forced his eyes open, and Gavin Lloyd’s face swam into focus, sweating and desperate. Lloyd fumbled in the pocket of his fleece, pulled out a roll of gaffer tape, peeled off a strip and gagged Lambert with it.
Over Lloyd’s shoulder, Lambert saw Collier, a metal bar in his hand, standing erect like a statue, his face a mask as he watched his boss. They both wore latex gloves and were clearly intent on committing another murder.
Lloyd, who had been bending over to secure the tape over Lambert’s mouth, straightened and stepped back several paces, surveying his handiwork. Still Collier hadn’t moved a muscle and Lambert sensed a reluctance to participate in this crime. If only he wasn’t gagged he might have a chance to negotiate with Collier. But Lloyd wasn’t going to give him that opportunity.
Lloyd turned towards Collier. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
An almost imperceptible shake of the head from Collier.
‘Just one hard crack,’ Lloyd urged. ‘He won’t feel a thing.’
‘It ain’t that. All the others deserved to die. This guy’s just a copper doing his job.’
Lloyd’s face reddened and his eyes blazed. ‘You’re forgetting my wife. She was no child molester. But I had to kill her. And whether you like it or not, you helped me. If she’d had her way, she’d have divorced me, and I’d have got fuck all. And you’d have ended up selling copies of Big Issue on the streets. So don’t start getting squeamish. We’ve come this far and this bastard’s not going to ruin everything I’ve worked for all these years. So if you won’t do it, I will.’
Lloyd walked over to Collier and reached for the crowbar, but Collier pulled his hand away like a child resisting a parent.
‘Don’t be stupid, Jack. D’you seriously want to lose everything?’
The doorbell rang. Lloyd’s startled head swivelled towards the door, but Collier hardly moved, his reactions deadened over the years by psychological damage.
Lloyd stared at Lambert. ‘Are you expecting someone?’
Lambert nodded. Lloyd froze, his brain trying to cope with the notion of Lambert having a visitor in the middle of the night.
The doorbell rang again, long and insistent.
‘It’s not going to go away,’ Collier told his boss, and moved to answer the door.
Outside the flat, Ellis had second thoughts about his actions. Perhaps he should have called for the armed response unit and waited. He was taking a great risk going it alone like this. Especially now he had everything to live for. He saw a morbid headline flashing through his brain, news of a young detective killed in the line of duty and leaving behind a wife and newborn baby.
But by now it was too late. He held his ID in front of him as the door swung open and he was confronted by Jack Collier, a crowbar in his hand.
‘I’ve got back-up,’ he bluffed. ‘An armed response unit will be here in less than ten minutes. So you may as well give it up.’
Collier turned his back on him and went back into the living room. Ellis closed the door and followed him. When Lloyd saw him, he must have known it was all over, and sank into an easy chair, his face drained of colour now.
Ellis, one eye on the metal bar in Collier’s hand, eased past him, went over to Lambert, peeled off the gag and untied his hands. Lambert, feeling dazed from the bang on the head, was helped to his feet by Ellis, and both men stood facing Collier.
‘I know all there is to know about you,’ Lambert said to Collier. ‘Con O’Sullivan, in 1975 Keith Hilden helped you murder your father. All these years he’s had a hold over you because of it. What did he do? Keep the murder weapon in that old banger outside his house, threatening to use it against you if you didn’t toe the line? But you went along with his recent plans because you thought he was helping you avenge all the abused children by killi
ng those paedophiles—’
‘They were just like my father,’ Collier broke in. ‘Poisoning young children’s souls; destroying their childhood. When I was just seven years old my father started on me. The pain was … it stays with you for the rest of your life. I have no regrets about killing my father or those men.’
‘And what about Mark Yalding?’
‘What about him? He was downloading child pornography. How long would it be before he began abusing young children?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, Jack, but Mark Yalding’s only crime was in having an affair with another man’s wife.’ Lambert stared pointedly at Lloyd. ‘And the husband stood to lose everything, seeing as how he had never paid back his father-in-law for a loan. Mark Yalding was having an affair with Rhiannon Lloyd, and she was about to leave her husband for him. That was why he used you, contrived this whole sordid affair, so that you would think Yalding was a potential paedophile.’
‘But he was. The police found out he was downloading child pornography.’
‘Wrong. He was set up by your employer, who got a credit card in his name, found his wife’s key to his cottage and downloaded the porn on his computer.’
Lambert noticed the panic in Collier’s eyes, the look of a mistreated mongrel.
‘Your boss knew his marriage was over and needed to get rid of Yalding, and so he used your revulsion of sex offenders as a way of getting rid of him. Even the idea of the TV programme about the sex offenders came from him, as did the leak to the press. He used you to kill an innocent man, first torturing him for a crime he never committed. And when that didn’t work, when he discovered his wife still intended divorcing him, he decided to kill her, using you as his alibi. He used you, Jack, to murder an innocent man, and also to conspire in the murder of another innocent victim. Unless you think infidelity is grounds for murder.’