FIFTEEN

DCS MARDEN ARRIVED at the scene as he said he would, exactly half an hour after speaking with Lambert on the phone. In the back garden, Lambert gave him the details and latest developments and thoughts on the case, and then left hurriedly by the side entrance. Beyond the police barricade, crowds of photographers, journalists and a few television reporters and cameramen surged forward, jostling each other and shouting questions.

‘What’s happening in there?’

‘How was Yalding killed?’

‘Have you any comments to make about how the case is developing?’

‘Is there a serial killer on the loose?’

‘Was the victim another paedophile?’

Ignoring the questions as he pushed his way through the press, Lambert stopped briefly and gave them a strained smile before he spoke.

‘Detective Chief Superintendent Marden will be with you in just a moment, and he’ll be pleased to give you the details and answer your questions. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to dash.’

He barged his way ill-temperedly through the throng and headed for his car. A local reporter who recognized him called, ‘Inspector Lambert! Where are you off to right now?’

None of your business, he thought as he got into his car.

He turned the car round and headed for Swansea, putting his foot down as it was now almost noon and there were some things he needed to do back at Cockett. But it was Sunday, and the Sunday drivers seemed to be out in force. He crawled along behind an elderly man until he found an opportunity to overtake.

When he eventually arrived at Cockett Police Station, he immediately requested the arrest and interview tape of Mark Yalding. Although Marden had given him a transcript of the interview, he wanted to hear the interview itself. The transcript wouldn’t give pauses, hesitations and the sometimes dry voice and tremor of the suspect. From hearing Yalding talking, he would get a better impression of what the man was like.

He went into the incident room, and while he waited for one of the uniforms to bring him the tape, he boiled the kettle, switched on one of the computers, made himself an instant coffee and sat by the desk with the opened-up computer. He’d just accessed his Inbox when a uniformed officer knocked and entered, hurried over to Lambert’s desk and gave him the tape. Lambert signed for it, giving the young constable a cursory, ‘Thanks, son,’ then clicked the tape into the machine and sat back to listen.

Conducting the interview was DI Geoff Ambrose and DS Mary Leigh. Also present was Yalding’s solicitor Graham Chapman-Smith. The interview was conducted at 13.30 on the previous Thursday.

DI Ambrose got straight to the point.

	Ambrose:		Mr Yalding, have you heard of Operation Ore?
	Yalding:		Of course I have.
	Ambrose:		You seem clear on that, yet there are many people who wouldn’t know anything about it.
	Yalding:		As you probably know, I work in television, and part of our remit is making documentaries, so we are very involved in current affairs.
	Ambrose:		So it won’t surprise you to learn that the FBI has traced a download of child pornography to your computer, paid for with your credit card. How do you explain that?
	Yalding:		I can’t. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it wasn’t me.
	Ambrose:		Are you telling us it was someone else using your computer?
	Yalding:		No. I mean … I don’t know.
	Ambrose:		Do you live alone?
	Yalding:		Yes … yes, I live by myself.
	Ambrose:		You seem a bit uncertain about that.
	Yalding:		No, no, of course I do. I definitely live on my own.
	Ambrose:		And so you have no way of explaining how those images came to be on your computer.
	Yalding:		Absolutely none.
	Ambrose:		You made a documentary about a paedophile ring in South Wales a while back. Was downloading child pornography anything to do with your work?
	Yalding:		No. That documentary was in the planning stages at least nine months ago – maybe longer – and we shot it back in February.
	Ambrose:		So you had no legitimate reason to download that pornography?
	Yalding:		Look, Inspector, no one has a legitimate reason ever to download child pornography. But I have no idea how this has happened. Someone must have set me up?
	Ambrose:		Set you up, sir? How is that possible?
	Yalding:		I don’t know. Maybe … maybe someone hacked into my computer. These computer geeks, they can do all kinds of things.
	Ambrose:		Well, I’m not an expert myself, sir, but these images are on your hard drive. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a hacker sending website images to someone else’s computer hard drive.
	Yalding:		Well, these … these things are changing daily. As soon as a virus is eliminated another one takes its place.
	Ambrose:		But we’re not talking about viruses. These are images downloaded from a website and paid for with your credit card.
	Yalding:		That’s just not possible. I’ve only used my credit cards in restaurants in the past month.
	Ambrose:		You’re sure about that?
	Yalding:		Yes. No. I did fly to Paris three weeks ago and I used a credit card for that.
	Ambrose:		How many credit cards do you have?
	Yalding:		Well, I think … um … I think I’ve got four of them.
	Ambrose:		You don’t seem that certain.
	Yalding:		Only because I paid one off and cancelled it, and did a balance transfer on another.
	Ambrose:		Have you used any of your credit cards for online purchases?
	Yalding:		Well, yes, I have … in the past.
	Ambrose:		And for what sort of services?
	Yalding:		Not services. Goods. Products.
	Ambrose:		Such as?
	Yalding:		Um … a few DVDs and CDs. That sort of thing.
	Ambrose:		What types of credit cards do you have? Visa or Mastercard?
	Yalding:		I have, I think, one Visa card now, and three Mastercards. Or is it the other way round? No, no, I’m certain I’ve got more Mastercards than Visa. Not the other way round.
	Ambrose:		The child pornography was paid for by a Mastercard in your name. How do you explain that?
	Yalding:		Oh God! This is a nightmare. I swear to you I haven’t done this. It must be someone else … someone else who’s responsible.
	Ambrose:		Any idea who that might be, sir?
	Yalding:		No, I don’t. But it must be someone … someone who got into my house.
	Ambrose:		Do you mean someone who might break in?
	Yalding:		Well, yes, maybe. While I wasn’t there.
	Ambrose:		OK, let’s just suppose someone did use your computer when you weren’t there. They would also have had to use one of your credit cards. Do you carry them around in your wallet or do you leave them lying around at home?
	Yalding:		Well, I keep them in my wallet. But maybe I’d left one by the phone.
	Ambrose:		And why would you do that?
	Yalding:		Well, maybe to make a payment that was due.
	Ambrose:		But you can’t remember for certain if you did or not?
	Yalding:		Well, I think I must have done. What other explanation can there be?
	Ambrose:		I have to have a password or a security name for my credit cards. Usually it’s your mother’s maiden name. Have you any idea how someone would know yours, Mr Yalding?
	Yalding:		They wouldn’t need to know it. You only need your mother’s maiden name or a secure number when you contact the credit card company to make a transfer or get account information. If you make online purchases you don’t need any of that. Just the card number and the three letter code on the strip on the back. If anyone had my card, they could make an online purchase.
	Ambrose:		That’s assuming someone had your card. And also assuming they had access to your home and computer. Does anyone have a key to your home?
	Yalding:		I … No, of course not.
	Ambrose:		I just thought a girlfriend perhaps.
	Yalding:		No. No one has a key to my place.
	Ambrose:		You live alone, but do you have a girlfriend, Mr Yalding?
	Yalding:		I … No, I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment. But I’m not …
	Ambrose:		Not what, sir?
	Yalding:		I’m not … I mean, I’ve got normal … I’m a straight bloke.
	Ambrose:		Do you mean straight as in the opposite of gay?
	Yalding:		Yes, I’m just a normal bloke.
	Ambrose:		But not in any relationship of any sort?
	Yalding:		Not right now. No.
	Ambrose:		How long?
	Yalding:		Sorry?
	Ambrose:		How long is it since you were in a relationship?
	Yalding:		I broke up with my girlfriend two years ago.
	Ambrose:		Was there a reason for the break-up?
	Yalding:		These things happen.
	Ambrose:		And apart from someone breaking and entering your home and happening to find a credit card conveniently waiting for them, you have no other explanation as to how these horrendous child pornography images came to be on your computer?
	Yalding:		Look, I’ve told you, I can’t explain how they got there. But I haven’t done anything. I promise. It’s all a mistake. And I wish there was a way out of this nightmare.
	Ambrose:		Mr Yalding, I am terminating this interview, as I believe we have enough evidence for a prosecution.
	Yalding:		No, you can’t. Oh Christ! This is a nightmare….

Lambert clicked the tape off. Knowing Yalding’s arrest and interview had happened on the Thursday, prior to the discovery of the two murders, Lambert could see that Ambrose obviously thought he had all the evidence he needed, and coupled with the suspect’s lame excuses about some mysterious intruder in his home, felt he had enough to put forward a case for the CPS. A clear-cut case, one which he could put behind him as he and his family set off on their Florida holiday.

While he waited for DC Jones, he thought about Yalding’s interview. It was clear-headed and coherent in most parts. Not that this meant a great deal. Many sex offenders were intelligent, and most were cunning and manipulative. But Yalding, when almost handed a lifeline by Ambrose asking him if downloading child porn might have had anything to do with research, had actually refuted this, and even admitted that downloading child porn was inexcusable whatever the reason.

Then there were the slight hesitations. Like when he was asked if he lived alone. Ambrose had picked him up on that, commenting on him not sounding certain. And that’s when Yalding emphatically denied it, almost as if he was protecting someone.

Could it be the woman Lambert saw that morning at Yalding’s cottage?

Then there was the business about the credit card, for which Yalding had no credible explanation. But still he emphatically denied using a credit card. Was this because he’d been caught in the act and thought it better to play dumb? Or was it because he was genuinely confused?

The final hesitation in the interview, and a slightly more telling pause, came when Ambrose asked him if he had a girlfriend. Obviously he knew where the DI was going with this, so he protested his staunch heterosexuality.

From what he’d heard, Lambert was convinced that Yalding had lied to protect this Rhiannon woman.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost 12.30. DC Jones was due to arrive at any moment. He sipped his coffee and winced. Instant just didn’t do it for him. The computer screen stared accusingly at him, reminding him that he needed to continue what he’d started, even though he knew he was going through the motions and doing what was expected of him. He opened up his brother-in-law’s email, clicked on the attachment and got the address of the Sydney crematorium. Then he found an international florist on the internet and sent a wreath costing over £60. A lot of money for a pointless gesture. But the hardest part was writing the message of condolence. He made several attempts and eventually settled on a simple message:

‘In memory of my dear sister, Angela, from her brother, Harry.’

As he completed the transaction, paying for it with his Virgin credit card, he reflected on how easy it was to buy goods or services online – all one needed was the card details, name and address. How easy was that?

‘The traffic’s bloody murder,’ said a breathless DC Jones as she burst through the door.

Lambert looked up and smiled. ‘Tell me about it. On the way here I got stuck behind a man who thought he was driving a bath chair to Lourdes.’

Jones laughed. ‘That must be the same bloke I got stuck behind in the outside lane of the M4.’ She spotted the florist’s website before Lambert pressed Exit. ‘Who’s the lucky girl who’s getting flowers?’

Lambert didn’t think it was any of her concern and said rather brusquely, ‘In this instance, not so lucky. My sister died yesterday and that was a wreath for the funeral.’

There was a sudden stillness and coldness in the incident room. DC Jones’s vulnerability was like an adolescent’s as her face flushed and she stammered, ‘I – I’m sorry.’

Feeling guilty for deliberately causing her embarrassment, Lambert cut in, ‘You weren’t to know, Debbie. I’m just going through the motions and doing what’s expected of me. My sister left to live in Australia when I was thirteen years old and never came back.’

‘Not even to visit?’

Lambert got up, shaking his head. ‘A person I didn’t know. A stranger that’s just cost me sixty quid in flowers.’

Like a dog shaking off the wet, he gave her a sudden grin, which she interpreted as her boss’s way of saying ‘life goes on’.

‘Come on, Debbie, we need to get on the road back to Cowbridge.’

‘We’re going to the crime scene?’

‘No. There’s someone we need to meet.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To a pub. Life’s not all work and no play, you know.’

 

During the drive to the Wheelwright’s Arms, Lambert told Debbie about Yalding’s female visitor and the conversation he had with her on the phone. After he’d finished, he asked, ‘What does the name Rhiannon mean to you?’

‘Well, I guess it’s a good Welsh name. Apart from that …’ She pouted and shrugged.

Lambert chuckled. ‘Too young to remember Fleetwood Mac?’

‘Oh, I think I’ve heard of them.’

‘Philistine!’

She could have sworn he was flirting with her and wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or not. One half of her liked the attention, and there was also the chance of job advancement from being favoured by the boss. On the other hand, it could be dangerous. If it went too far and she turned him down, that could lead to all kinds of complications. Far better to keep it on a professional level.

‘What has this woman got to do with Fleetwood Mac?’

‘Probably nothing. They had a bit of a hit with “Rhiannon” in the mid seventies. This woman would probably have been born in the early sixties. I’m only guessing, but I would put her age as late forties maybe.’

‘So her parents chose the name because it was a traditional Welsh name, not because it was a song from a favourite band. Is that relevant in any way?’

‘It might tell us something about her background. Her parents were probably quite well-to-do. Intellectuals. Cultured. A bit posh, maybe.’

‘Because they chose a traditional Welsh name?’

‘The name comes from The Mabinogion, an old Welsh book dating back centuries, and I think Rhiannon was a princess.’

‘Have you ever read it?’

‘I started it but didn’t get very far. It’s all that sword and sorcery nonsense, which I can’t stand, literature or not. But my point is this: if this Rhiannon’s parents had lived in a council house in the Valleys, she might have been called Sharon or Tracey. Names are sometimes great indicators of a person’s background.’

‘Is that why Jordan went back to being Katie Price?’

‘Probably. Now she realizes all the chavs have adopted the name. I know that sounds like a generalization – and it probably is when it comes to names like yours and mine. But a pound to a penny says that a pre-Fleetwood Mac Rhiannon comes from a very good family. And what about you, Debbie?’

The abrupt change confused her. ‘What about me?’

‘I’ve never asked you before: you’re half Welsh and half Asian, yes?’

She wondered where this was heading.

‘My father’s Welsh. And my mother’s father was Welsh, but her mother was Indian. My grandmother came from Bombay, now known as Mumbai.’

‘So your mother’s maiden name would have been Welsh rather than Indian?’

‘Not unless you think Sinclair is Welsh.’

Lambert chuckled to himself.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I was just thinking how easy it is to find out a person’s maiden name without them attaching any significance to it.’

‘I’m not sure if I follow what you mean.’

‘Hang on, Debbie, I think this is the turn-off.’

He started to brake before a turning on the right, with a signpost indicating that it was two miles to the next village, and a huge square board in the corner of a field, showing the Wheelwright’s Arms was 100 yards from the main road.

The large pub was set back off the B road, up on a hill, with a car park at the front. It looked as if it had been converted into a pub rather than purpose built, and might once have been the property of a rich landowner in the early part of the twentieth century. The beer garden at the side was fairly crowded, not only with families, as there was a play area for children, but also with serious drinkers who were able to smoke outside and sit beneath large mushroom-shaped gas heaters.

Lambert managed to find a space in the car park, letting Jones get out before he squeezed his Mercedes into a narrow gap between an enormous Toyota four-by-four and a Renault Espace.

As they walked towards the pub’s entrance, Lambert said, ‘Let’s find a place to sit inside, shall we? And I think we’ve got time for a bite to eat. We’ve got forty-five minutes before she gets here.’

‘That’s if she turns up.’

‘I think she will. She doesn’t want us at her place for obvious reasons.’

‘But we don’t know where she lives.’

‘We’ve got her first name and mobile number. It won’t take much to find out.’

It seemed gloomy inside the pub, but that was probably because of the stark contrast between sunshine and a dark interior. The place was doing a roaring trade, and most of the customers being served at the bar were loading their drinks on to trays to take outside. Lambert found a corner table that was free and picked up a menu.

‘I’ll buy lunch,’ he told Jones, glancing hurriedly at the menu. ‘Ham, egg and chips’ll do me.’ He handed her the menu. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll have the same.’

‘And what would you like to drink?’

‘I’ll have a soft drink. J2O or something similar.’

While Lambert ordered at the bar, Jones sat and thought about the murder of Yalding. She wondered how this Rhiannon would take the news. If Yalding was her lover, badly she guessed. Was this why Lambert wanted her along, as the more compassionate one of the two detectives, offering comfort and sympathy to the grieving lover?

As Lambert carried the drinks over, he saw the heavy frown on the young DC’s face and guessed what she was thinking.

‘I’m sorry, Debbie, but I need you to do the woman-to-woman bit and give her a shoulder to cry on. It’s not going to be fun in such a public place. But as we can’t go to her home, there’s little we can do about that.’

She noticed how weary her boss seemed, the strain of too much death showing in the tiredness about his eyes and the pale, waxy texture of his skin.

She raised her glass. ‘Cheers!’

‘Yeah, cheers!’

She watched him knock back a good half of his pint of bitter, and was amazed to see the sudden recovery, as if the drink had pumped fresh life into him, and a bit of colour flooded back into his cheeks.

‘So when are you going to tell her about the murder?’ she said.

‘After I’ve got enough information about Yalding and her relationship with him.’

 

While Tony Ellis thoroughly examined the contents of Yalding’s desk upstairs in the cottage, Kevin Wallace went house-to-house knocking on doors, as did a uniformed constable in the opposite direction.

The first two cottages Wallace called at there was no reply. He made a note of the numbers so that he wouldn’t overlook calling back, when hopefully there might be someone in. When he knocked at the third cottage, a dog began barking furiously. There was a long pause while he heard doors opening and closing and a voice reassuring the dog that all was well. And then the front door was opened by a short, elderly man, probably no taller than Ronnie Corbett and not dissimilar in looks. He smiled as he looked up at Wallace and the detective thought he saw a triumphant glint in his eyes.

‘Ah! I wondered when you’d get around to it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘To ask the neighbours if they’d seen anything unusual; anything suspicious.’

‘And have you?’

‘I might have. Which begs the question: why didn’t I approach you with what I know? Why have I waited for you to call on me?’

Wallace gritted his teeth impatiently. He was in no mood to play games.

‘I really don’t know, sir. But I’d be grateful if you could tell me if you’ve seen anything suspicious.’

‘I lived in Cardiff most of my life. Remember that knife murder in Roath Park early one morning, when a young nurse was on her way to work an early shift?’

‘No, I don’t think I remember that one.’

‘It must have been before your time. Back in 1978. I was a park keeper there. And although I wasn’t working that early, I saw a suspicious-looking bloke hanging around at other times. So when I approached the police to tell them about it, know what they said?’

Even though he felt like throttling the little squirt, Wallace kept deadpan and shook his head.

‘They said: “It’s all right, sir. We’ve got everything in hand.” They didn’t want to know what I’d seen. They weren’t interested. Consequently, they got the wrong bloke. A miscarriage of justice it was. He was let out in 1990 and probably got a huge compensation.’

Wallace let his breath out slowly, telling himself to keep calm.

‘I think you’ll find that police methods have changed for the better in recent years, sir.’

‘Huh!’ the man exclaimed with a laugh.

‘So if you did see anything suspicious last night,’ Wallace said, ‘I’d be grateful if you could let me have the details.’

‘I took Benjie – that’s my dog – out for his constitutional a bit later than usual last night. Must have been about half eleven. When I got back I noticed this white van parked almost opposite his house.’

Wallace felt a ripple of excitement in the pit of his stomach. ‘And why was this unusual?’

‘Because I know all the neighbours’ cars, and nobody’s got a small white van like that. Kerry up at number sixteen’s got a large blue van cos he’s a mechanic, but no one else has got a van.’

‘What time did you start out to walk the dog?’

‘Just before half eleven. I’d been watching a film on TV, otherwise I’d have taken Benjie earlier.’

‘And was the van there when you started out?’

‘No, it was there when I got back. That’s why I noticed it. I thought it was strange arriving that late, seeing as it didn’t belong to anyone in our road. And I thought there was someone sitting inside the van.’

‘You saw someone?’

‘I felt there was someone there. Then when I came indoors, I didn’t put the light on and I went and peeked through the front window. That’s when I saw him getting out of the van.’

Wallace felt the excitement rising in his chest.

‘You saw someone? Where did he go?’

‘I think he went to that Mark Yalding’s cottage. He was going in that direction. I couldn’t be certain from the angle I was looking.’

‘This man: what did he look like?’

‘Hard to tell. It was dark.’

‘How tall d’you think he was?’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘What about his hair colour?’

‘He might have had dark hair. But all I could see was this man in the shadows, just a dark figure crossing the road. I only saw him for a few seconds, like. And he was carrying something.’

‘A bag of some sort?’

‘Yeah. It might have been one of those – um – sports bags.’

Wallace knew this had to be the killer. Trying not to show the excitement building inside him, he asked the man for his name.

‘It’s Williams. Ian Williams.’

‘Thank you, Mr Williams, that’s been a great help. We might require you to make a statement later on.’

Williams nodded and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. ‘That was the killer, wasn’t it?’

‘It’s possible,’ Wallace replied.

‘Go on. It has to be him. The white van man.’ Williams chuckled to himself.

‘What did you do,’ Wallace asked, ‘after you’d seen this man going towards Yalding’s cottage?’

‘Do? I just went to bed.’

‘And thought no more about it?’

‘Well, I never thought it was a murderer, did I? Otherwise I’d have been on to the police. Don’t talk daft.’

‘So who did you think this man might have been?’

‘How the bloody hell should I know? It could have been a friend of Mr Yalding, coming to stay with him. That’s why he had a bag.’

‘OK, Mr Williams, you’ve been a great help. We might be in touch later.’

As he walked away from the cottage, Wallace heard the smugness in Williams’s voice as he called after him:

‘Good job you come looking for me then, wasn’t it?’

As Wallace hurried back, ducking under the police tape surrounding Yalding’s cottage, reporters and photographers surged forward, and he ‘no commented’ them with a wave of a hand.

But one of the reporters, a shrewd operator who had observed Wallace talking for quite some time to one of the victim’s neighbours, thought he’d wait until the rest of the pack were distracted by the statement from Detective Chief Superintendent Marden before making his move.

 

They had only just finished their meal when Lambert spotted her entering. She hovered nervously near the entrance, eyes scanning the tables, clearly hoping someone would approach her soon.

Lambert rose and moved towards her. ‘Rhiannon?’

She nodded, and Lambert thought he detected fear in her eyes, a foreboding of bad news.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You told me your name on the phone but …’

‘It’s Detective Inspector Lambert, South Wales CID.’ He gestured for her to move towards their table. ‘And this is Detective Constable Jones.’

She gave Debbie Jones a brief nod before sitting.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Lambert offered.

‘I wouldn’t mind a dry white wine.’

DC Jones stood up quickly. ‘I’ll get it.’

While she went to get the drink, Lambert sat back in his chair and gave the woman an understanding smile, intimating he was a man of the world and her infidelity was of little consequence.

When he had watched her outside Yalding’s cottage, he had noticed how attractive she was, but now that he was close to her he was overwhelmed by her classical beauty. Her pale complexion, high cheekbones and swan-like neck gave her an artistic elegance, as if she had stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, and her light auburn hair, which had looked blonde in the distance, added sensuality to her attractiveness. She wore a light beige lipstick and lightly applied emerald eye shadow, which highlighted her green eyes.

Lambert observed her change of clothing. She had gone home and changed into white trousers and a green, sleeveless shirt. Her engagement ring sparkled extravagantly, and her platinum wedding ring was discreetly thin. And the thin wristwatch she wore looked as if it might be expensive.

She glanced apprehensively around the bar before speaking. ‘Do you mind telling me what this is all about?’

Her dialect, he noticed, was what he would describe as ‘posh Welsh’, a hybrid practised by Dylan Thomas and Richard Burton, speaking with a sing-song lilt of the Valleys but adopting the high-class vowels of Oxford.

‘I want to talk to you about Mark Yalding. Is he a close friend of yours?’

‘Is this to do with that nonsense about the internet pornography?’

‘What makes you think it’s nonsense?’

‘I just know Mark isn’t like that.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I just know.’

‘So would you be prepared to stand up in court in his defence and swear to his innocence?’

She paused, staring down at the table. ‘It shouldn’t even go to court.’

‘Nevertheless, the pornography was downloaded from his computer and paid for with his credit card.’

She frowned hard, concentrating on a single thought, until something seemed to click in her brain. ‘If he’s been charged and scheduled to appear in court, what were you doing watching his place? And why do you need to speak to me?’

Lambert suddenly found himself on the receiving end of the awkward questions. Fortunately, DC Jones arrived with the white wine.

The woman thanked her in Welsh. ‘Diolch yn fawr.’

‘You’re welcome,’ DC Jones said as she sat, exchanging a brief look with her boss.

‘You seem utterly convinced Mark Yalding is innocent of the child pornography charge,’ Lambert said. ‘So how well do you know him?’

‘Can you accept that I know him well and leave it at that?’

‘How long have you known him?’

She hesitated. ‘I – I’ve known him for about two years.’

‘That’s not long, is it, to be so certain about what goes on in someone’s private life?’ Lambert sighed impatiently. ‘You’re obviously married, and you don’t want your husband to know about this meeting. Is there a reason for that?’

Again, the hesitation. ‘He – he’s a very jealous man.’

‘And has he got a reason to be jealous?’

Instead of replying, she held her glass to the light, sniffed it as though she was an expert wine taster, and took a small sip. The two detectives watched her, waiting for an answer.

Staring into her wine glass to avoid eye contact with them, she said, ‘Mark and I are lovers, which is why I find that business about child pornography hard to believe.’

DC Jones prompted her gently. ‘Because you both have a good sex life?’

She nodded.

Lambert decided it was time to change tactics.

‘What does your husband do?’

She hadn’t been expecting this question and was thrown by it.

‘Do?’

‘Yes. What does he do for a living?’

‘He has his own business.’

‘What line of business?’

‘What has this got to do with Mark?’

‘I don’t know until you answer the question.’

She took another sip of wine before answering. ‘My husband’s a management consultant.’

DC Jones said, ‘Rhiannon’s a lovely name.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We can’t really call you Rhiannon, though.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s partly to do with our training. It’s either sir or ma’am or a surname. What’s your surname?’

‘Williams.’

Lambert noticed how much less hesitation it took to answer this question, almost as if she was prepared for it.

‘And that’s your married name, not your maiden name?’ Jones asked, and a sudden thought sped like lightning through her brain. Why had Lambert made such a thing about her own maiden name and its significance?

‘Yes, that’s my married name. I’m Mrs Williams.’

Lambert leant forward on the table. ‘Mrs Williams, did your husband know or have grounds for suspicion about your affair with Mr Yalding?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘But you’re not certain.’

‘No, I don’t think he did. I’m almost certain.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Almost certain! Isn’t that what they call an oxymoron?’

‘Mr Yalding,’ Lambert continued, ‘is adamant that he’s been set up in some way. Is there anyone else you can think of, apart from your husband, who might want to incriminate your boyfriend?’

‘No, there’s no one. Mark’s a lovely man; he gets on well with everyone. He’s well liked and popular.’

‘Do you have a key to his cottage?’

Another slight hesitation before she answered. ‘Well, yes, I do but—’

Lambert cut in, ‘So when I saw you call at his cottage this morning, and there was no reply, why didn’t you let yourself in?’

‘I didn’t have it with me. I’d misplaced it. We have a drawer in our kitchen full of odds and ends, and I rummaged through and couldn’t find it.’

‘You think it might have gone missing?’

‘Of course not. If you saw the state of this drawer, you’d realize how hard it is to find anything.’

Lambert nodded slowly, deep in thought. In the background he could hear music playing, just about audible over the sound of pub banter and laughter. He identified the number as one he liked: Marc Almond singing, ‘Say Hello, Wave Goodbye’. As he took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst, a delicious smell of garlic swamped his senses.

‘Mrs Williams, I have some bad news. After you left the cottage this morning, I went round to the back door. It was open so I let myself in.’

She seemed to shrink into herself as she stared at him, her eyes desperate and pleading, fearing one of the worst things she knew she would hear.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you: I’m afraid Mr Yalding is dead.’

At first she looked as if she had been turned to stone. Then, like a volcano erupting, her body shook as she choked and sobbed, unable to control her grief.

Several people standing at the bar stared at the scene, embarrassed but curious. Jones slid an arm across her shoulder and muttered soothingly:

‘I’m sorry. It’s a tragic loss. I’m so sorry. He must have meant a great deal to you.’

‘I knew,’ she sobbed, ‘when I went to the cottage this morning, and there was no reply … Oh, God! I just knew something dreadful must have happened. Can we go outside, please?’

She began to rise shakily, hanging on to the table for support. Jones gave her an arm to lean on and helped her towards the door. Lambert picked up a spare serviette and followed them. A cursory glance at the bar told him they were the focus of everyone’s attention. DC Jones managed to steer her away from the pub entrance and found a quiet area far from the beer garden, close to the pub’s trade entrance and a wooden boundary fence, which Rhiannon Williams leant against for support.

She sniffed noisily and Lambert pressed the serviette into her hand. ‘Oh, God!’ she moaned. ‘Oh, God! I must pull myself together. I must. I must.’

‘Because of your husband?’ Jones asked.

Rhiannon Williams nodded tearfully, wiped her eyes and blew her nose on the serviette. ‘Though how I’m going to do that, Christ only knows. But I must.’ Like a cornered animal, her expression became suddenly fierce as she stared accusingly at Lambert. ‘Why did you wait to tell me? Asking me all those questions, and all along you knew he was dead.’

‘I’m sorry. There were things we needed to know.’

‘Yes but what’s the bloody point? If Mark killed himself because he felt so ashamed, you asking me all those questions—’

‘You don’t understand,’ Lambert interrupted. ‘He didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.’

‘Murdered? Who would want to murder …’ It took her a moment to comprehend, but when the realization hit her, she opened her mouth in alarm but seemed unable to speak.

‘He was beaten to death just like the two recent murders of the sex offenders,’ Lambert said.

‘But Mark was no sex offender.’

‘We know he had no convictions and no police record of any sort. But because of the child pornography charge, the killer probably thought differently.’

Her eyes fired up with rage. ‘If the police hadn’t arrested him, and if it hadn’t got into the papers, he’d still be alive. Mark would still be alive.’

‘We have no way of knowing that.’

‘Don’t lie to me. Those other men who were killed … it was after it was reported in the papers.’

‘The police had no choice but to arrest him, following an FBI report of the child pornography download from his computer. If you want someone to blame, go for the press and paparazzi.’

Her anger subsided and huge tears bubbled in her eyes. ‘Mark would never have done such a thing. I know he wouldn’t. And now he’s gone, and he’ll never be able to prove his innocence.’

She dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose with the sodden serviette. DC Jones moved a little closer to her and spoke softly.

‘If it’s any consolation, we’ll find the killer and bring him to justice.’

‘It won’t bring Mark back.’

‘But is there anything we can do to help in the short term? You might find it tricky going back to your husband in this state. Obviously he’ll start asking questions.’

‘I’ll go and visit my mother and stay with her for a few days.’

‘Where does she live?’

Rhiannon Williams stared at Jones, trying to decide whether she could trust her with information about her private life. After a brief pause, in which she sighed and shuddered, she mumbled, ‘She lives on her own in a house in Porthkerry. It’s much too big for one person, and she should really be in a home – for her own good. Her short-term memory’s gone and she lives almost entirely in the past. She remembers me from years ago, and when I go round she won’t remember that I called to see her two days ago.’

Lambert took out his wallet and offered her his business card. ‘If you think of anything and you need to contact me, it’s got my number on it.’

She stared at the card with an uncomprehending, dazed expression. ‘I don’t see what I could possibly …’

‘You never know. However trivial it might seem, it could help us with our enquiries.’

She nodded, and looked off into the distant hills, her eyes searching for some meaning to the way her life had suddenly been devastated.

‘Are you all right to drive?’ DC Jones asked.

Without answering, she turned decisively and walked towards her Land Rover, which she had parked on the grass verge at the roadside.

They watched her drive off, and Jones asked, ‘I presume you got the licence number when she was parked outside the house?’

‘Of course. And I intend checking it.’

‘You think she lied about her husband’s occupation?’

Lambert nodded. ‘And I’ve got a feeling she lied about her surname as well. I don’t think she wants us to know who she is.’

‘Because of the affair she was having?’

‘Yes, and she has even more of a reason to keep it from her husband now that her lover’s dead.’

Frowning, Jones stared searchingly into her boss’s eyes. ‘That’s a very cynical outlook you have, Detective Inspector.’

‘It goes with the territory.’