DRIVING FROM HIS flat in the Mumbles along the sea front towards Swansea Marina, Lambert experienced the initial nervousness he invariably felt before visiting a murder scene. His temperature rising, he wondered if wearing his leather coat had been a mistake, because it was unseasonably warm and sunny for mid October. He toyed with the idea of turning on the air conditioning, but the unnatural blast of cold would irritate, so instead he let window down, breathing in good sea air mixed with car fumes. The dazzling autumn sun was low in the sky and he squinted and lowered his windscreen visor. Stopping at a set of traffic lights he felt a sting of cold air coming in from the mouth of the Bristol Channel, a reminder of how cold the nights were becoming.
A trickle of sweat ran from under his arm and he realized it had little to do with the temperature. He’d always had an aversion to violent crime and sometimes wondered if perhaps he should transfer to another division. But his CID record was a good one, unblemished in fact, and he drove such thoughts out of his mind, hoping his squeamishness wouldn’t show at the crime scene. He felt a weak stomach was a shortcoming in a police officer and tried to hide it by appearing blasé. But he could never switch off his feelings. The only time he’d let it show was when the victim of a particularly brutal slaying was a pre-pubescent girl. He’d needed counselling after that one. But he hadn’t been the only one affected, and it seemed perfectly normal at the time to see tough, grown men weeping because they found it difficult to cope with what they’d seen.
A quick blast on a car horn disturbed his morbid thoughts and he realized the lights had turned green. Raising a hand to his driving mirror to acknowledge the driver behind, he took his foot off the brake pedal, pressed hard on the accelerator and the Mercedes automatic darted forwards. He smiled, inwardly pleased with his new toy. The two-year-old Mercedes was a compensatory gift for himself, bought when he received the decree nisi from Helen’s solicitor.
Once he had turned off the main road towards the marina, it didn’t take long to locate the crime scene. The yacht basin in the middle of the marina was surrounded by luxury flats on one side and a pub, shops and restaurants on the other. He parked near the crime scene vehicles and walked to the police cordon. Opposite, on the other side of the basin, customers lined up outside the pub, joking and laughing as they watched crime scene officers search for evidence on the deck of a small launch.
Detective Sergeant Tony Ellis stood on the quayside near where the boat was moored, his receding hairline drenched in sweat. Beside him stood Detective Constable Kevin Wallace, nervously pulling on his moustache, an adornment he’d grown hoping to give his boyish, chubby face a touch of authority. The two men were already kitted out in crime scene outfits.
Standing a little way off, near another SOCO van, was Debbie Jones, and Lambert saw her talking to someone he couldn’t see, on the other side of the vehicle. He liked Debbie. She was part Welsh, part Asian, and correctly guessed the Asian was on her mother’s side. She was slim, attractive and elegant in a trim-fitting, charcoal-grey trouser suit, her black hair centre-parted and falling into neat curves, ending just below her chin. Because she hadn’t changed into crime scene coveralls, Lambert mentally gave her extra Brownie points for anticipating the way he intended to work the investigation.
He gave the detectives a cursory wave before changing into protective clothing. A wolf whistle came from across the yacht basin as he walked towards the boat, followed by raucous laughter from the drinkers. When Lambert reached the steps leading down to the boat, he stopped and spoke to Ellis.
‘The incident took place inside the boat, I take it. Have you been down there yet?’
‘Got here just minutes before you did, sir.’ Ellis wiped his forehead with the back of the blue surgical glove he wore.
‘It’s extremely cramped down there.’
Lambert turned as he recognized the broad North Wales dialect of Dave, the crime scene manager.
‘Hello, Dave,’ Lambert acknowledged with a nod. ‘Bad, is it?’
‘Not a pretty sight, this one.’ Dave looked pointedly at Ellis and Wallace. ‘Like I said, Harry, it’s small and cramped, and Hughie John’s down there. And you know what he’s like about wanting his space.’
‘Bloody prima donna,’ said Lambert. ‘Still, he does a good job. Where would we be without forensics? OK. Thanks, Dave. It was never my intention for the troops to go swarming all over the joint.’
‘Fair enough. I’d better prepare myself. Press office is sending someone over and pretty soon we’ll have reporters and the telly people swarming all over the marina.’
As Dave returned to his vehicle, Lambert acknowledged Debbie Jones with a brief nod and slight smile, before talking to the three of them.
‘I’m going to take a look down below and have a word with Hughie. Incidentally, who discovered the body?’
‘Emergency call came through over an hour ago,’ Ellis said. ‘Man named Gordon Mayfield. He has a boat moored in the next basin. Seems he’d borrowed a boat hook or something from the victim and was returning it.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘On board his boat. There’s a female PC with him. Mandy Goring. Got her job cut out trying to calm him. Apparently he was very shocked by what he found.’
It took Lambert a moment to deliberate. He realized the other detectives probably had a morbid curiosity to visit the crime scene, a compulsion to see the awful reality of human viciousness, even though it was something they hated doing. But he knew any potential witnesses need to be interviewed promptly, while small details are fresh in their minds.
‘Right,’ he said decisively, glancing briefly at the boat. ‘Let’s give Hughie the space he needs.’ He turned towards Ellis and Wallace. ‘Tony, Kevin, you can both get changed, quick as you can. Tony, I want you to question this Gordon Mayfield. On second thoughts, take Debbie with you. See if you can find out whether the victim had any visitors to his boat.’
‘I’m onto it.’ Ellis hurried towards one of the police SOCO vans to remove his protective clothing. Before following him, DC Debbie Jones hesitated, staring at Lambert with an expression of motherly concern, sympathetic yet reproachful. Her boss’s dark hair was greying fast, his rugged features looked unhealthily drawn, and his once slim physique had become flabby.
‘Well?’ he snapped, irritated by her ambivalent manner. ‘Something wrong?’
She shook her head and walked off. He immediately forgot about her and pointed out the apartment block to DC Wallace.
‘Kevin, I want you to start calling on the marina apartments to see if anyone noticed anything unusual happening in this vicinity. Anything, however trivial it might seem.’
‘You don’t think a quick dekko of the actual crime scene might help—’
Lambert interrupted him. ‘No, I don’t think it’s necessary for you to view the corpse. You can see the photos. I want you to find out if anyone visited this boat.’
DC Wallace nodded, looking slightly shamefaced. ‘I’m onto it.’ Immediately regretting using the same words as Tony Ellis, he turned sharply and walked away, relieved his boss couldn’t see the beetroot colour of his complexion.
But Lambert was already on his way down the steps at the quayside to where the boat was moored. Stepping gingerly aboard the narrow edge of the launch, which he noticed was named Narcissus, he held the rail with a gloved hand to steady himself onto the deck at the stern. Below the bridge of the boat was the entrance to the cabin, and he took a deep breath to prepare himself for what he had to confront. He nodded to a couple of SOCO officers who were examining the deck closely, and then turned to begin his descent, but stopped to give way to a crime scene officer carrying a video camera.
‘I hope that carries an eighteen certificate,’ he said.
The officer chuckled. ‘These days this sort of thing would get by with a PG.’
Lambert stepped cautiously onto the steep steps, ducking under the sliding hatch, and descended into the cabin. As he entered, he saw Hughie John move back from the corpse to give the photographer a clear shot. The bulb flashed, and that was when Lambert observed that the corpse was naked, lying on its back on the cabin floor, wedged between a wicker chair and a long bench seat, awash in a pool of blood. The battered head had something thick and black across the lower part of the face. It looked like a strip of gaffer tape, used to silence the victim. Lambert stepped cautiously into the cramped cabin and felt a crunching beneath his feet as he stepped on shards of glass.
Hughie turned to greet him. ‘Harry, good to have you on board.’
Lambert acknowledged Hughie’s joke with a grim smile. Then, as his eyes were drawn along the man’s naked body, they widened at the horror of it. Hughie watched his reaction.
When Lambert spoke, his voice seemed to be cloaked in some dark and forbidden past. ‘What happened to his penis?’
‘Looks like he had acid poured on it.’
Lambert exhaled slowly. ‘Jesus!’
‘No,’ Hughie said, smirking. ‘That was nails through hands and feet, but no acid on the genitalia.’
‘Please, Hughie! Spare me the gallows humour and tell me what happened here.’
‘Well, the victim’s hands are bound behind his back. I’d say he was killed by three blows to the head, mainly to the side, as there’s not enough room to swing a cat in here. Looks like the killer tried to get a good hard blow from above and came in contact with the light above, which explains the broken glass everywhere. Looks like it’s nearing the end of rigor; putrefaction hasn’t set in yet, in spite of the heat, so my rough guess would be time of death approximately ten hours ago, but I can’t be certain until John Jackson’s done the post mortem. There’s also a small bruising at the back of the neck, indicating a blow to knock the victim unconscious. He was probably stripped, had his hands bound behind him, was sat in the wicker chair, and had acid poured on his penis. Something like sulphuric acid, I should think, and that would have eaten away at his privates. Mustn’t make assumptions, but it looks like he’d been playing fast and loose with someone else’s chattels.’
Lambert nodded and stared at the body. ‘How old would you say he is?’
Hughie pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘At a rough guess, I’d say late fifties, early sixties maybe.’
‘Any sign of the murder weapon?’
Hughie smiled and pointed towards Lambert’s foot. ‘You’re standing next to it.’
Lambert looked down. Sure enough, his foot almost touched a steel bar about three feet long, lying in a pool of blood and broken glass. He stooped and stared at it closely, looking to see if it had the manufacturer’s name on it.
‘I think that’s called a wrecking bar,’ Hughie informed him, and couldn’t resist adding, ‘Appropriate name, eh?’
Lambert peered at the blood-stained shaft of the bar. He saw tiny letters near to the curved claw end of the bar, squinted and read aloud: ‘Made in China. Well that narrows the field.’
Hughie chuckled as he watched Lambert. ‘They reckon China’s now the world’s leading exporter. GDP growth at the rate of more than nine per cent over the last twenty-five years. Up until less fortunate times, of course.’
Rising from his stooping position, Lambert said, ‘Enough of world economics, Hughie. D’you reckon once the weapon’s dusted we’ll find a set of prints?’
Grinning, Hughie shook his head.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Lambert agreed. ‘Still, it’s got to be done.’ Looking towards a bench seat, he stooped and peered at the recess under it. ‘This glass looks different from the broken light.’
‘I think that’s a smashed bottle of Beck’s beer,’ Hughie said. ‘And there’s another bottle behind it, unbroken and unopened.’
Lambert straightened, and stared at the untidy bundle of clothes on the bench seat. ‘The victim’s clothes?’
Hughie nodded. ‘They seem to be the right fit.’
The cabin was again filled with a blaze of light as the photographer took a shot of the murder weapon. Lambert examined the clothes. There was a rugby shirt, but not aligned to any particular club, more of a fashion statement, boat shoes, and a pair of khaki chinos. Seeing a bulge inside the back pocket of the chinos, Lambert inserted his hand and drew out the wallet. When he flipped it open, he saw maybe a couple of hundred pounds in it. That would rule out robbery. Then he saw the bank debit card and the name on it. ‘My God! This bloke’s name.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s unusual. You couldn’t make it up. It’s like a character from a Charles Dickens book.’
‘Come on,’ Hughie said. ‘Hit me with it! I’d like to know the victim’s name.’
Lambert raised his eyebrows and stared at Hughie. ‘You ready for this? Lubin Titmus.’
Instead of laughing, Hughie stared at his feet, frowning thoughtfully as he searched his memory.
‘What is it, Hughie?’
‘I don’t know. Name rings a bell. But where from?’
Lambert sighed deeply. ‘Yes, as soon as I saw the name, I thought I recognized it. But I haven’t a clue either. All I know is I’ve come across the name before.’
The wallet had a display section inside, just big enough for a credit card, with a clear plastic window showing a senior citizen’s railcard.
‘At least we know he’s in his sixties. He’s got a senior railcard.’ He removed the railcard from its display section and turned it over. ‘This makes life easier. It’s got his postcode on the back, in case of loss.’ He stuck his hand in one of the leg pockets of the chinos, pulled out a bunch of keys and rattled them in front of Hughie. ‘I’m off, Hughie. I reckon I need to move quickly on this one, get to the victim’s home address. And if there’s no one home …’
Lambert paused, and Hughie finished his sentence for him. ‘You can let yourself in and have a snoop around.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Hughie, when hopefully you’ll have something for me.’
As Lambert moved towards the stairs, Hughie called after him, ‘When you find out who he is, give me a bell and put me out of my misery. Otherwise it’ll bug me all night.’