by David Barry
Denton laughed contemptuously. ‘Been turned around by the IRA? Inspector, we are nearing the end of talks about decommissioning at this delicate time. It won’t be long before the scum that give the orders to leave bombs in public places will be respectable politicians.’
‘Look,’ said Lambert impatiently, ‘you and I both know there’s the hardcore and splinter groups who don’t want the talks to succeed. So could Evans have been working for them?’
Denton paused, regarding Lambert with disdain. ‘It’s possible. But unlikely. One thing’s for certain. Evans never really belonged. Not to us. Not to anyone.’
‘But he was a good soldier?’
‘The best. Born to it.’
‘What about family? Any military background?’
Denton went through the motions of glancing at the monitor. ‘A maternal grandfather who served in the RAF. A reluctant conscript.’
‘Did he have any friends in the SAS? Anyone he might have shared his secrets with?’
‘He and a chap called Terry Clark were very close. They both left around the same time. Went freelance.’
Lambert frowned thoughtfully, wondering if this had anything to do with the murdered farmer.
‘Mercenaries,’ Denton explained patronisingly, thinking Lambert hadn’t understood.
‘D’you know where I can find this Terry Clark?’
Denton, knowing in advance that the inspector would ask for Clark’s details, opened a desk drawer and handed him a sheet of A4 paper. The ex-trooper’s address was handwritten across the centre of the page. Lambert looked deliberately surprised that the major had pre-empted his request for Clark’s whereabouts. If he already knew the information Lambert required, then why all the pretence of checking the computer for details? Perhaps it was simply because he enjoyed playing one-upmanship games, giving himself psychological advantages. Lambert could imagine him on the squash court, knowing all the little tricks that stopped just short of cheating.
‘Lives in your neck of the woods, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’ Lambert glanced at the address, noticing that Terry Clark lived on the Mumbles, not far from his own place.
‘But I don’t think you’ll find anything,’ Denton pronounced, ‘that connects the SAS with this killing.’
‘Maybe...’ Lambert began, then checked himself.
‘I think not,’ Major Denton said conclusively.
***
On the return journey, Lambert’s mobile rang. It was Sergeant Ellis.
‘Harry? It’s Tony.’
Ellis always addressed him by his first name when they weren’t in a formal situation. It was always ‘sir’ in front of officers of a higher rank, but there was a relaxation of the unwritten rules when no one else was around. And it was like that with anyone else on his team.
‘Hi, Tony. What’s the latest on Evans?’
‘I’ve just come from the hospital. On Tuesday evening Evans was there, visiting his mother.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She had cancer.’
‘Had?’
‘Yeah. Evans was with her when she died. Then, according to the nurse, he just legged it away from there as fast as his legs could carry him.’
‘I wonder if her death’s connected to the murder?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Just thinking aloud.’
‘How did it go in Hereford, Harry?’
‘I met some stuck-up public school tosser who sounded as if he’d got a cork bunged up his arse.’ He heard Ellis chortle at the other end of the line. ‘I’m just on my way to see one of Evans’s mates. Another trained killer. It shouldn’t take long. I should be back around six. See you at our usual watering hole. Or are you feeling too knackered?’
‘I think I could manage a couple of pints.’
‘I’ll see you later then.’
Chapter 12
Terry Clark’s house was tucked away in a side street on the Mumbles. It was a large Fifties house, with new double glazed windows and a mock Georgian front door. Lambert compared it with his own one-bedroom flat, and took childish pleasure in the fact that at least the mercenary didn’t have a sea view.
In the road immediately outside the house a stocky young man of around thirty was hosing down his gleaming electric blue Maverick four wheel drive. He had close-cropped hair, a pugilistic face - perhaps his nose had been broken in a fight - and a slightly weak chin. Lambert guessed that this must be Terry Clark. He parked the car further up the road, then walked back towards the mercenary’s house. If Clark heard him approaching, he pretended not to notice.
‘Did you know there’s a water shortage?’ Lambert announced.
Clark looked back over his shoulder, playing the insouciant hard man. ‘So what? You from the council?’
Lambert passed his warrant card in front of the mercenary.
‘Are you having me on? This is Wales. We got plenty of water.’
Lambert smiled. ‘Mr Clark?’
Terry Clark nodded uncertainly. ‘You haven’t come about the car washing, then?’
Lambert shook his head. ‘Of course not. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. You probably heard on the news that a farmer was shot out near Pontardawe. I regret to inform you that your friend Gary Evans has been arrested and charged with his murder.’
The ex-SAS man’s face was expressionless. For a while he stared at the stream of water running from the hose into the gutter. Lambert watched him closely, saying nothing.
‘Mind if we go inside?’ Clark eventually said, his voice slightly husky. ‘I could murder a drink.’
Lambert followed him to the side of the house, where he turned the tap off, then in through the back door. The kitchen looked as if it had been recently refurbished, chosen from a standard design, and was rarely used for any serious culinary purpose. Apart from the remains of a Chinese takeaway, the surfaces were pristine.
The one reception room was spacious, the furniture smart, inexpensive and modern, predominantly black, with silver-framed posters on the wall, one of a heavy metal rock singer with satanic overtones, the other a black-and-white photograph of a nude on a beach, suggestively holding a beach umbrella between her legs.
Clark poured himself a liberal brandy and took a large gulp. It looked as if he was doing it for show. ‘That’s better,’ he said, shaking himself like a wet dog as the brandy hit home. He held the bottle out towards Lambert. ‘Inspector?’
Lambert declined and sat in an easy chair. Clark topped himself up, replaced the top back on the bottle and sat on the sofa opposite Lambert.
‘Tell me about Gary’s family,’ Lambert said. ‘It would be useful to know something about his background.’
‘You know his mother just died.’
‘Yes, my sergeant phoned me on my way over from-’ Lambert stopped himself from saying Hereford. ‘Was he depressed about his mother dying?’
‘Yeah. They were very close. I expect he took it bad.’
‘When was the last time you saw Gary?’
Clark paused. He suspected the detective already knew the answer to this question. He took another sip of brandy before speaking.
‘Day before yesterday.’
‘That would have been Tuesday. What time Tuesday?’
Clark shrugged. ‘Dunno. Could have been around two-half two. I’d just had me dinner and we met at a pub. Had some business to discuss.’
Lambert stared at the cocky, young mercenary, barely able to disguise his contempt. ‘What about? War? Assassination? Arms dealing?’
Clark smiled arrogantly. ‘It was all above board.’
‘Was Gary planning to accompany you on your next-er-escapade?’
Clark shook his head. ‘He knew his mother didn’t have
long to go. Said he was taking compassionate leave.’
‘How did you know his mother died?’
‘He told me, didn’t he.’
Lambert tilted his head thoughtfully and stared at the heavy metal picture. ‘I thought you last saw Gary Evans at lunchtime on Tuesday.’ He shot Terry Clark a look. ‘His mother died in the evening.’
Clark sighed impatiently and said slowly, ‘I happened to phone him on his mobile. I wanted to talk to him about the little caper I had going.’
‘What about Gary’s father? Is he still alive?’
‘He died about eighteen months ago. He was a roofer. One day he missed his footing and found out he weren’t Superman.’
Clark’s head lolled back and he snorted with laughter. Lambert stared at the mercenary, trying to place where he could have seen him before. Then an image of his own father flashed inside his head, taunting him. The mercenary had the same laugh as his father and the same swaggering attitude. Lambert could visualise his father at this age, sporting a deadly charm that veered towards loathsome. He drove the memory of his father out of his head and threw his next question at Terry Clark.
‘How did Gary take his father’s death?’
‘He was over the moon. Cracked open the champagne. And I don’t mean your sparkling white. He hated his old man, he did.’
‘Did he tell you much about their relationship?’
Clark showed Lambert a closed fist. ‘Used to beat the fuck out of him. Thought he could teach him about God.’
As Clark stretched his arm out, the sleeve of his polo shirt rode up, revealing a discreet tattoo, but unmistakably the SAS insignia, the feathered dagger with its famous motto.
‘Who Dares Wins, eh?’ said Lambert, staring pointedly at it.
The young mercenary tugged at his sleeve, giving the impression that he regretted having had it inscribed on his arm. ‘Who cares who wins?’ he said.
‘As long as you’re not on the losing side,’ Lambert offered.
Clark grinned confidently. ‘My sentiments exactly.’
‘Mr Clark, have you any idea why Gary Evans would want to shoot the farmer?’
‘None at all.’
‘He didn’t ever mention it?’
Clark shook his head. ‘Look, I ain’t got a clue. I really haven’t. Why don’t you ask Gary?’
‘We have.’
‘And?’
‘He’s not saying.’
Clark grinned and relaxed back into the sofa. ‘That sounds like Gary. Once he makes his mind up, that’s it!’
Chapter 13
The bar was quiet. It was a pub Lambert had discovered, quite a walk from HQ, and he and Ellis often came here to avoid other colleagues in the police service, who tended to drink in a public house nearer their work.
Lambert raised his glass. ‘Cheers, Tony.’
Ellis looked at his boss, smiled and shook his head. ‘You look like I feel, Harry.’
‘Yes, well, it’s all starting to catch up with me. The old man’s funeral on Tuesday was not a good start to the week. And the bloody traffic today, that’s done me in, that has.’
‘You off home soon?’
Lambert nodded miserably. ‘Such as it is.’ The thoughts of an empty flat filled him with dread. He didn’t relish a night of guilt and soul searching. He knew that if he spent the night indoors on his own, then his father’s ghost, a contentious spirit in his memory, would provoke and torment him for hours on end.
‘Well, I should try and get a good night’s sleep,’ said Ellis.
‘Something tells me I’m in for a sleepless night, Tony. This murder’s really playing on my mind. Normally, when I go home, I can usually manage to leave my work behind to a certain extent, but this.... We’ve got a nice easy arrest, a confession, and enough evidence that goes way beyond circumstantial to nail the bastard, but....’ Lambert shook his head, sighed deeply and gulped back at least half of his pint.
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s frustrating. Why would he shoot a useless old piss-head like that?’
‘It doesn’t make sense. He was obviously depressed about his mother, and he shot the old boy the following night. Coincidence?’
‘What about the SAS and his time in Ulster?’
Lambert frowned thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I can’t help thinking it has something to do with the army. Or his mercenary activities.’
‘Not that it makes any difference now. He isn’t going to say another word. I expect the defence will go for a plea of insanity.’
‘Well, I should think the CPS will agree to that. If he gets a rolling sentence in the funny farm, I don’t think he’ll see daylight again. I know one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’d like that gorgeous, brown-eyed creature to help me unravel the sweeter mysteries of life.’ Lambert inclined his head towards a far corner of the bar, where two girls had just sat down at a table.
Ellis gave his boss a knowing look. ‘Complications. Who needs them?’
‘Yes, you’re right, Tony. Don’t stray. It’s not worth it. Now look at me: home to an empty shell and the sound of my own size nines. What I wouldn’t give for a bit of female company just for tonight.’
Ellis grinned. ‘Well, as it happens I do know someone who might oblige.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes. DC Maynard. She’s really got the hots for you has Carol.’
Lambert thumped his empty glass onto the bar. ‘No way, Tony. No way.’
Ellis looked at him quizzically.
‘I’ve nothing against Carol personally. She’s not bad looking. But I’m not going to risk making a fool of myself at work. I’ve mastered that in my private life.’
The barman, on hearing the slam of the empty glass, moved along the bar towards them.
‘Another?’ Lambert offered.
Ellis glanced at his watch. ‘If it’s all the same to you.’
‘Yeah, go on home. You’re lucky to be married to such a nice girl, Tony. Take a tip from me: don’t screw it up.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Ellis drained the last drop of his beer. ‘So I suppose that’s it about Evans, then.’
‘Yes,’ Lambert agreed with some reluctance. ‘He’ll go down for a very long time. And no one can force him to talk. End of story.’
Chapter 14
And that seemed to be that as far as the police were concerned. The motive for the killing preoccupied Lambert while he collected and prepared his evidence for the CPS; then he was told by Detective Chief Superintendent Marden not to waste any more time delving into the case. After all, they had as much evidence as they needed for a watertight conviction. But as the weeks went by, he forgot all about Evans. Other cases kept him busy, though most of them were straightforward, almost routine, compared to the Wilson murder: a man kicked to death outside a pub in Sketty; a petrol station robbery; an elderly woman brutally attacked in her home by a bogus water board official; and a spate of taxi driver robberies at knife-point. By the time the Evans case came to court, Lambert had made ten arrests and looked like getting as many convictions. But, if he had to admit it, as he sat in the courtroom listening to the evidence of this bizarre case, he underwent the same frustrated feelings of weeks ago. He wanted to know why. The Evans crime was more intriguing than any other case he had worked on; but this time it looked as if the motive for the murder was going to remain unsolved. ‘Forget it,’ Marden told him, not knowing, or hardly caring, how deeply frustrating Lambert found it.
As for his private life in the weeks preceding Evans’s trial, he realised he was now paying a heavy price for his infidelities. Home to an empty flat at night, which he tried to avoid by immersing himself in work. He had no hobbies, no interests outside of his job. He occasionally followed Rugby Union, but that wa
s about it. And you couldn’t really call that a hobby. An interest, maybe. But then thousands of people in this part of the world followed Rugby Union. He phoned Helen up a few times, under the pretext of talking to her about their daughter, but (perhaps because she was going ahead with divorce proceedings) she was always short, and her accusatory tone riled him. He visited Natasha several times, driving all the way to Leeds and stopping the night; but even his beloved daughter seemed irritated by her father’s intrusion. She had new friends now, and her own life to lead outside the family home, which had ceased to exist. The times they spent together felt awkward for both of them, and Natasha felt sorry for her father and treated him with the long-suffering patience of a hospital visitor. On several occasions, he tried to chat up women in a Swansea pub, but they didn’t want to know, as if they could see his drawing power dwindling. Perhaps his charm carried the mark of desperation now. He began to take a long hard look at himself, what he had become. He was forty-eight and with his track record should have made chief inspector by now, if not superintendent; but he suspected his superiors disapproved of his lifestyle and of the reasons for the break-up of his marriage. This could explain why his recent application for promotion had been denied, in spite of his excellent record as a detective. And his sometimes bolshie behaviour didn’t help, the way he sometimes went out of his way to goad Detective Chief Superintendent Marden at Bridgend HQ.
The trial of Evans was almost over by lunchtime and the jury left the court to decide on a verdict, which Lambert guessed was a forgone conclusion, the defence having pushed for an insanity verdict. As they filed out of the courtroom, Ellis looked at Lambert, eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘What now, Harry?’
‘We’ll have an hour for lunch, and I guess the jury will too, so I reckon we’ll have a verdict by mid-afternoon. Let’s face it: they can’t come to any conclusion other than guilty.’
‘For reasons of insanity?’ Ellis questioned.