DRIVING BACK TO Swansea later that night, Debbie Jones stared at the distant hills, black and forbidding, small lights twinkling from lonely cottages, and she thought about the horrific crime scene she had witnessed. Lambert took his eyes off the road briefly and glanced in her direction.
‘How’re you bearing up under the strain of seeing your first gruesome?’
‘Harry, I’m OK. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy so I’d psyched myself up for it.’
Eyes back on the road, Lambert stared grimly at the carriageway ahead. ‘I’ll let you into a secret. The first time I saw something like we saw tonight, I threw up and I almost fainted. I still don’t find it easy. So you acquitted yourself admirably. You must let me into your little secret.’
‘It’s called habituation.’
‘So when did you get used to seeing blood and gore?’
‘When I went to uni. I was going in for forensics; wanted to be a pathologist. So I’ve had some experience of cutting up cadavers.’
‘What changed your mind about a different career?’
‘I think it’s because I was attracted to a job that would be different every day, and I thought with my degree I could fast-track to detective. I just think there are more opportunities for me in the police.’
Lambert chuckled. ‘So you’ve got your sights set on being the next female chief constable?’
She didn’t reply, and he knew by her silence that he was right. She was ambitious, but for all the right reasons. Unlike his own motives: to study law simply to spite his working-class father, who hated students and further education. And later abandoning law to join the police, again to spite his father, whose loathing of the police was extreme, even though Lambert had never discovered a reason for this.
Changing the subject, DC Jones said, ‘According to forensics’ initial impression, Jarvis Thomas had been dead for well over a week.’
‘Well into that disgusting state of decomposition. I think I could have worked that out. No wonder I fancy a nice long soak in the bath.’
‘So if he was killed over a week ago,’ Jones continued, ‘that makes him the first victim.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Lambert replied. ‘There may be others who have already been topped but not yet been discovered. Which means the stink of death will be even worse than that of Jarvis Thomas.’
When they had visited the crime scene, and were met by Sergeant Mark Sweet, who was based in Carmarthen, he had given them a quick briefing. Jarvis Thomas’s corpse had been discovered in the mobile home he rented on a farm two miles outside the town. The farmer who owned the land had been pestering his tenant for rent arrears and called round to see if he could catch Thomas at home. After knocking and getting no reply, he tried the door and, finding it unlocked, entered. He said he was shocked but not surprised to find someone had murdered his tenant. He was open about knowing Thomas was a convicted paedophile, but said it was difficult to find tenants these days, and why should he be blamed for letting accommodation to someone who had done his time. After finding the body, he dashed back to his house and poured himself a large neat brandy, which he drank before making the 999 call.
Like Lubin Titmus, Jarvis Thomas had probably been knocked unconscious, had gaffer tape stretched across his mouth, was stripped and tied to a chair, and had had acid poured on to his genitals before being bludgeoned to death with a wrecking bar.
Lambert threw DC Jones a quick glance, admiring her attractive profile. She caught him looking, so he told her, ‘I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts based on what you know so far, Debbie.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose we can be certain until we get the pathologist’s findings, but my initial reaction is that both victims were alive when they were subjected to the acid torture. And that would indicate that the perpetrator has an abomination of sex offenders and wants them to suffer before death. But you know what’s really odd about that?’
‘Go on.’
‘It looks as if the victims knew their attacker. So if the murderer is someone who was one of their abused victims, how come they invited that person in?’
‘We can’t be sure that they did.’
‘Well, I wasn’t present at the crime scene on the boat, but if it was similar to the one we’ve just been to …’
‘Almost identical,’ Lambert said.
DC Jones continued. ‘Well, there was no indication that Thomas put up a fight. It looked as if he was taken by surprise. Apart from the massive amount of blood spilled, and breakages from the bludgeoning with the metal bar, Thomas’s home seemed to be reasonably clean and tidy; not what I expected at all. And it looked as if he was having a beer with his attacker. There were two cans of Special Brew among the wreckage.’
‘Same as on the boat,’ Lambert said. ‘There was a broken bottle of Beck’s and another one intact and unopened. What do you think that tells us?’
‘That the killer didn’t want to leave a DNA sample in his saliva. Which means we’re dealing with someone fairly smart? And I’ll bet there are no fingerprints on the unopened can or bottle.’
‘Hmm,’ Lambert reflected. ‘Which would mean he’d be wearing gloves. Bit conspicuous considering we’re in a bit of an Indian summer. Unless he had a reasonable explanation.’
‘You’re a convicted paedophile, and late one night you’re visited by someone wearing gloves and carrying a heavy metal bar. What sort of explanation would you accept as reasonable?’
‘My dermatitis is playing me up? I don’t know. Until we talk to forensics, we won’t know if he was wearing gloves or not.’
‘Pound to a penny he was.’
‘I don’t think I’ll take your bet.’
Smiling, DC Jones glanced at her boss. ‘Coward!’
For a moment, Lambert thought she might be flirting with him. But flirting with one of his officers was stepping into inappropriate territory, so he chose to ignore it. Keeping his voice level and businesslike, he said, ‘How about the victim’s blood? The killer would have been splattered, quite liberally, I would have thought.’
‘Suppose,’ Debbie Jones began, slowly and thoughtfully, ‘the killer has a holdall in which he keeps the wrecking bar and a change of clothes? He changes from one tracksuit, say, to another. At least if he’s stopped on the way back, it won’t show that he’s been covered in blood. As soon as he gets home, he can shower and destroy both sets of clothes.’
‘But under what pretence would he have visited his potential victims?’ Lambert asked.
It suddenly became clear to the young detective that her boss had already reached these conclusions himself, but was giving her the opportunity to prove herself.
‘Perhaps he knows what these men are like, the way they groom their victims. So he turns the tables on them and becomes a groomer himself, grooming them for murder. Maybe he masquerades as a paedophile, and calls on them with a promise to give or sell them child porn. Most of these men know they daren’t use the internet for that sort of thing anymore, not since Operation Ore has managed to snare so many of them.’
Lambert nodded approvingly. ‘Well done, Debbie. That’s a reasonable theory. But the hard work begins tomorrow when one of our tasks will be to track down the abuse victims and eliminate which ones have watertight alibis and see who we’re left with.’
‘But you know one thing I can’t fathom, if you go by the books: blunt instrument murders are usually frenzied, primitive killings. But this particular killer, maybe prior to the murders, tortured them in a cold-blooded way, watching as the acid ate into their more emotional parts.’
Lambert paused while he thought about this. ‘Maybe, just maybe,’ he began, ‘this killer once went bananas and killed his abuser in a frenzied attack. Perhaps that one was more personal. But now he’s on a mission, ridding the world of evil paedophiles.’
‘That would make sense,’ Debbie Jones agreed. ‘We could log onto HOLMES and search for a similar crime – an unsolved – going back a few years.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ Lambert told her as he clicked his indicator for the Swansea turn-off. ‘Where can I drop you, Debbie?’
‘Anywhere near the centre. I know it’s nearly half ten but I need a bite to eat. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’
‘Same here,’ Lambert said. ‘I know this pub where they do toasted sarnies up to closing time. I’m buying if you fancy it.’
‘Thanks,’ said the young DC. ‘I really fancy a toasted ham and cheese.’
‘Pub it is then.’