HAVING INSERTED THE postcode into his navigation system, it took Lambert less than twenty minutes to get from the crime scene to Port Talbot, near the victim’s home. The house was somewhere in the middle of a narrow one-way street, and the postcode offered him a choice of four or five houses. Lambert found a space to park and walked towards where he thought the house would be.
Most of the houses were terraced, with small gardens at the front, some of which had well-tended gardens, proudly displaying flowers and potted shrubs, but most had been paved over to accommodate a car or motorbike. But there was one house that stood out like a sore thumb. Not just because it looked neglected and decaying, with its dirty net curtains and a broken window pane which had been temporarily repaired with a sheet of plywood, but it was the door that was conspicuous. It was spray-painted with the word ‘SCUM’ in deepest red.
Lambert stared at it for a moment, frowning hard and searching his memory for something that had been on the regional news recently. Suddenly it came to him in a rush, and he remembered the television pictures: affronted mothers standing in the street, waving banners and shouting abuse; angry talking heads; rage and fear of living near men who were a danger and a menace to innocent children. It had happened after the Sun had named and shamed convicted paedophiles living in South Wales, causing members of the community to start behaving as vigilantes.
Right away Lambert was certain he had found the victim’s house. He swung open the creaking metal gate and walked down the paved path, grass growing between the cracks, adding to the deserted feel of the place. He felt in his pockets for the victim’s keys and was about to see which key fitted the lock when his attention was distracted by a movement behind him. He spun round and found himself face to face with a pugnacious-looking man of about fifty, standing rather too close and invading his space, poised and ready to attack with a head butt. Bloated and red-faced, and sweating profusely, the man reeked of alcohol and tobacco.
‘Can I help you?’ Lambert said, easing back.
‘You a friend of that bastard?’ He spoke with a strong Glaswegian dialect.
‘I take it you mean Mr Titmus?’
‘I asked if you were a friend of that dirty bastard.’
Lambert shook his head. ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘Oh aye?’
Lambert fumbled in his back pocket and brought out his ID. The man stared closely at it, and then locked eyes with Lambert.
‘So what’s the bastard done this time?’
Ignoring the question, Lambert regarded the man calmly, taking his time before speaking. ‘The house looks deserted. Has Titmus been back here lately?’
The man pursed his lips and shrugged. ‘How would I know?’
‘Well, you were quick enough to intercept me. So I naturally assumed you must be keeping an eye on the place. Why would that be, I wonder?’
‘We don’t want scum like that in the neighbourhood. This is a respectable area.’
Lambert inclined his head towards the door. ‘Presumably it was you who sprayed the message on there.’
‘You can presume all you like. Proof’s another matter.’
‘There are worse crimes than graffiti.’
The man’s glassy, alcohol-sodden eyes suddenly blazed with anger. ‘Exactly! Like interfering with children. Dirty fuckin’ bastard.’
‘So you decided to take the law into your own hands?’
The man sniffed noisily and swallowed. ‘We have a right to protect our children.’
Lambert took out a pen and notebook. ‘And just how far would you go to protect your children?’
‘Oh, I’d go all the way. Believe me. I’d do anything to protect my children.’
‘I think I’d better have your name and address.’
‘What for?’
‘Because I’m asking you for it, sir.’
The man jerked a thumb back. ‘I live two doors away from the bastard. Number thirty-three. Name’s Norman McNeil.’
‘Well, Mr McNeil, we’ll need to talk again soon. But for now I’ve got these premises to search.’
McNeil rubbed his chin thoughtfully, passing a hand across his mouth, a gesture the detective noted as the action of a man reluctant to speak. Of course, it could have been police phobia. McNeil struck him as the sort who thinks the police are useless and do nothing except hound poor motorists.
McNeil leaned forward conspiratorially and Lambert got a blast of putrid tobacco breath. ‘If you ask me, you guys are too busy chasing the wrong people.’
Lambert jangled the keys in front of him. ‘I have to get on and search these premises. We’ll be round later to ask you a few questions.’
‘What about?’
For now, Lambert decided not to tell McNeil about the murder. He wanted to find out if McNeil had known the victim had a boat moored at the marina. If he did know, he could be a prime suspect, and even if he turned out to be innocent, it was always possible he could have told someone else.
‘Just some routine questions and information about Lubin Titmus,’ Lambert said. ‘Like, for instance, how often did he come back to his house?’
‘Hardly at all during the day. I think he sneaked back late at night to collect things. My wife saw him one night – about two in the morning it was. Her friend from work was getting married and they was coming back from a hen night. Jackie – that’s the missus – shouted out what sort of scum he was. She might have woken some of the neighbours. She was a bit bevvied, like.’
‘Mr McNeil, did you happen to know where Lubin Titmus went to from here? Whether or not he had other accommodation?’
McNeil stared at Lambert, an inward struggle showing in his face. ‘How the hell am I supposed to know that?’
It was on the tip of Lambert’s tongue to say, ‘You could have followed him,’ but he thought better of it. That could wait until later.
‘Thank you, Mr McNeil. That’ll be all for the moment. We’ll be in touch with you later today. We would appreciate it if you’d make yourself available.’
McNeil shrugged. ‘I wasn’t planning on going out.’
He turned, staggered slightly, and then lumbered out of the gate. Lambert slid the key into the lock and pushed open the front door. A musty, stale smell confronted him as he entered the airless house. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment, surveying the hallway.
The walls were decorated with rose-motif wallpaper so ancient it was difficult to tell the colour of the roses. Lambert smiled wryly as he stared at a grey art-deco mirror hanging from a blackened silver chain that closely resembled the hideous one in the living room of his grotty flat. A hat stand, containing several golf umbrellas slotted into its base, stood next to the mirror. Lambert pushed open the door leading to the front room and entered, coughing as he felt the dust tickling the back of his throat. Although it was still sunny outside, the room was gloomy, the heavy damask, maroon curtains half closed, blocking out most of the light, except for a stream of sunlight forcing its way through drab net curtains in the centre gap, highlighting a shaft of dust motes and coming to rest on a patch of threadbare carpet. The furniture, which consisted of a sofa with wooden arms and an easy chair that may have been the latest ‘contemporary’ feature in the late 1950s, contrasted sharply with the latest HD flat screen television set and DVD player. Scattered around it were dozens of DVDs, which Lambert saw were predominantly pornographic. He flicked his way through a selection. They seemed to be of every persuasion: everything from teenage sluts, to anal and oral sex between hetero and homosexuals. Incongruously, beneath a film about gang rape, he found The Wizard of Oz, the cover showing Dorothy walking arm in arm with the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion along the yellow brick road.
Lubin Titmus appeared to have eclectic tastes, Lambert thought sourly.
In an alcove next to the tiled fireplace was a roll-top desk. Lambert slid it open and searched the various compartments, finding nothing but odds and ends of stationery, but when he slid open one of the drawers he found a photograph of a thin-faced man with white hair and a black moustache – late fifties, he guessed – unsmilingly staring at the camera as if he was reluctant to be photographed. His arm was draped about a boy’s shoulders. The boy looked to be about twelve or thirteen, and there didn’t seem to be any family resemblance to the man. Lambert turned the photograph over. Written in ink were the words: ‘Gordon and friend’.
He pocketed the photograph, and was about to call Tony Ellis when his mobile bleeped. He clicked the receive button and saw there was a message from Hughie.
‘No need to call me. Victim Sun exposed pervert. C U 2morrow.’
Lambert clicked off the message and continued to call Ellis.
If anything, Gordon Mayfield’s boat, The Amethyst, was even smaller and more cramped than the victim’s. It was stifling and claustrophobic, and PC Goring, who had been solicitously plying the witness with words of comfort, sat squashed into a tight corner, feeling the start of an excruciating pain in her back as she was hunched into an uncomfortable position in the stern. She had had to make room for the two detectives, who sat on a bench seat across from Mayfield, who was sitting on another bench seat opposite them.
Mayfield was thin and angular, his cheekbones jutted out like carved marble, and his sunken eyes were green. His hair was thick, wavy and pure white, but his moustache was jet black, giving it a dyed appearance. He was clearly distressed at finding the body as there seemed to be a permanent tremor in his voice, and his hands shook like an alcoholic’s.
‘Can you remember what time you found his body, sir?’ Tony Ellis asked.
Mayfield frowned deeply, staring at the floor as he tried to remember. He cleared his throat gently before speaking. ‘Yes, I remember looking at my watch just before I went over there. It was just after 12.30.’
Ellis exchanged a brief look with DC Jones before continuing. ‘The emergency call came through at 2.30 from your mobile, two hours after you discovered the body. Any reason for the delay, sir?’
Mayfield’s eyes flickered briefly as they made contact with Ellis, then he looked away again. Jones stared at him intently, wondering if he was about to break down. While they waited for him to respond they could hear beery laughter coming from the pub across the basin, followed by a girlish squeal. Ellis was about to prompt Mayfield, when he suddenly stammered a tearful response.
‘It was so … so shocking … f-finding him like that. I felt sick. I wanted to hide.’
Ellis frowned. ‘Hide? Why would you want to hide, sir?’
‘His head … the way he’d been beaten. It was awful.’
‘But wouldn’t most people, on experiencing such a dreadful thing, telephone the police immediately?’
‘Yes and I think you said you wanted to hide.’
‘I just meant … it was so awful, I wanted the earth to swallow me up. I was in a state of shock.’
‘You mentioned how sick you felt. Were you physically sick at the crime scene or anywhere near it?’
‘I may have been. It was just so terrible.’
Sergeant Ellis looked towards DC Jones, hoping she was on his wavelength.
‘Mr Mayfield,’ she said, ‘the crime officers found no traces of any vomit on his boat or on the quayside nearby.’
It was a lie. She couldn’t possibly have known about him not being sick as she hadn’t visited the immediate crime scene. But Ellis was satisfied she had picked up on the way he was leading the inquiry and carefully studied Mayfield to see how he would respond.
‘I suppose I just felt sick. I came back here and I was in a state of shock. It took me a while to recover.’
‘Two hours. And then you telephoned the police. Did you know the victim well?’
Mayfield shifted position on his seat, and then seemed to brace himself so that he could look Ellis in the eye. ‘Not well, no.’
‘He wasn’t a close friend then?’
‘More of an acquaintance.’
Debbie Jones studied him carefully. She knew he was lying, the way it seemed a great effort for him to hold Ellis’s stare.
‘How long had you known him?’ she asked.
Mayfield shrugged and thrust out his bottom lip as he thought about this. ‘Not long.’
‘How long?’
‘Oh, I think it might have been about three, four months maybe.’
‘How did you meet each other?’
‘Here at the marina. We just got talking one day.’
‘You just got talking!’ she echoed, combining astonishment with doubt.
‘Yes, that’s what it’s like with boat people. We all have a common interest and we like to talk about boats.’
A blaring noise in the cramped cabin startled everyone, which after a brief disorientation Debbie Jones recognized as the saxophone in Gerry Rafferty’s ‘Baker Street’, which was Ellis’s chosen ringtone.
Ellis fumbled for his Nokia then checked the display. It was Lambert. ‘I’d better get this.’
Irritated by the interruption, Debbie Jones glared at Ellis’s mobile, but as soon as she heard him saying, ‘Yes, boss,’ she listened carefully, trying to catch some of the conversation.
As Ellis listened to instructions, he studied Mayfield carefully, but his expression gave nothing away. After a short one-sided conversation, he said, ‘Right away, boss. I’ll bring him in.’ He pocketed his mobile and stood up, stooping under the low ceiling.
‘That was DI Lambert, and my boss would like to talk to you, Mr Mayfield. I hope you don’t mind coming with us?’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘There are some questions he’d like to ask you.’
Mayfield tried to stand up but his legs seemed to fail him. He was weak and frightened, a rabbit caught in headlights. As DC Jones watched him struggling to get up, she knew he was trying to hide something. Something which Lambert already knew. And she couldn’t wait to find out what it was.